Not For Sale
by Dianne
Summary: John told his friends that Anthropologist, Marcus Parkham had made his life a living hell as he studied people on the reservation. When Parkham sets his sights on studying L.A. County Fire Department with the blessing of HQ, John must find a way to warn his friends that trust in this man is a fatal mistake, but can he protect them without divulging painful secrets from his past?
1. Chapter 1

A/N Hi. Any reviews positive or negative are welcome but any reviews which involve said reviewer's takes on any subject not related to my story will be removed, in other words, please do not use my review section as a forum as I've seen some authors subjected to. I don't know if I have any stories left in me,it might be my last, and yes, this is one of those John needs help stories, like it or not, let me know, it's all good. The character of John is a grown up man, not a child and I have written him as such because to do otherwise is a disservice to the character; but it was a common theme in the stories that John didn't sleep well sometimes and that he related his past with Anthropologist Marcus Parkham and that said man had made his life a living hell; that's just canon fact. Canon also states that John was sensitive and proud of his culture and that Chet hurt his feelings but they reached an agreement and became fast friends. When a person is hurt, friends stand by; I don't see John as being coddled when friends sit bedside vigil, it's what family and friends do. There have been stories which took that to the extreme, however and I attempt not to do that. What I am saying is, yes, this is a hurt/comfort story, and it is labelled as such. Honestly, this A/N probably sounds snarky but actually as I post this first chapter, I have just learned that Copenhagen Zoo in Denmark murdered a healthy, eighteen month old giraffe in front of children today for the so called reason of breeding management. Other zoos worldwide offered to adopt this beautiful creature but the Copenhagen Zoo keeper is a psychopath; he shot this baby with a bolt gun in front of little kids, cut it up, autopsied and fed it to lions in front of children! I have spent the day crying. Writing is my way of leaving the real world behind for a few minutes because sometimes ... people just suck! I'm with Gandhi and other enlightened souls, "A nation and its moral progress can be judged by the treatment of its animals and its least." DENMARK FAILED!

And on that note, off to fantasy land for a few precious moments as alas we live in the real world and sometimes it's not too bad.

XXXX

Why did it have to happen today? Any other day, Roy Desoto might have considered getting stuck in an elevator at Rampart a nice break from work. Word from maintenance on the emergency phone estimated at least an hour delay in getting the elevator operational again.

"Oh man, we're gonna be late for the meeting back at the station. I can't believe this, of all days. What if it's an important meeting, Roy? What if it's about that old lady who wanted to sue us for breaking her second story window to get her out of her house? What if it's about that restaurant owner who passed inspection and still had a fire and wants to sue us? What if it's…"

"I'm sure Cap'll wait for us, Johnny," Roy said calmly pulling a green pen from behind his ear and lowering himself to a sitting position. "In the meantime, let's use this time to catch up on our paperwork. Maybe we'll actually get to go home on tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess," John agreed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He scavenged in his bag for his papers and poised them on his bent knee before frowning as his head disappeared once more into the bag. "You wouldn't happen to have an extra pen would you?"

Roy dutifully produced another pen and applied himself to his notes. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his partner scratch a few words, look up, then down, then up again.

"I wonder if we're between floors." John's pen went through his paper. He smiled sheepishly and flattened the rather now tattered notes onto the floor and tried to write that way. The elevator lurched. "Oh come on!" the paramedic cried in frustration as his attempt to cross his _t_ for trauma caused his paper more trauma than the patient to which the documentation referred.

Roy continued to make progress with his notes as he shook his head at his partner who had given up on trying to make use of this time and had begun drumming his borrowed pen on the railings in tune to the elevator muzak version of _Thank God I'm A Country Boy._ Roy snatched his pen back and John looked properly punished.

"How long do you think we're gonna be in here?" Johnny asked.

"No idea," Roy unhelpfully replied.

John began to whistle _Thank God I'm A Country Boy._

"Chet's gonna find that ironic, Junior and he's gonna use it if you don't get that out of your head right now," Roy offered as warning. It was common knowledge that John often whistled the same tune all day and if Chet heard John humming about being a country boy after the taunts months back about his heritage there would be no living with either of them for the rest of the day. Roy never wanted to go there again. Ever!

"So Cap never gave you a heads up as to what the meeting was about this time?" John continued to push. "I mean he usually gives you or Stoker some idea of the agenda. Don't know why he never asks me…"

This caused Roy's pen to pause on _p_ for pupil response. It _was _odd that Cap had called a meeting with no itinerary consult.

"Hm, you know, I think you're right. I didn't see Mike and the Cap in the office at all either. Wow, this meeting must be really important." Roy continued to muse for a second and then cleared his throat and tried to resume his writing without success. "Why do you always have to do that?" he complained.

"Do what?" the dark haired paramedic asked innocently.

"Draw me into your musings. Make me nuts. Now I can't concentrate on my work and this time will be wasted."

"Ah, I'm sure it's fine," John told his partner. "I'm sure it's nothing," he added, snatching Roy's pen and starting to write, leaving his partner in complete astonishment.

"You've done it again," Roy muttered half under his breath.

"Done what?" John asked, dotting his _i_ for injection with an irritating aura of newly found concentration.

"Oh just forget it," Roy grumbled, settling back to his work just as the elevator gave another violent lurch and his pen skewered through his paper and the upper thigh of his pants causing a very un-Roy-like cuss of pain.

"You okay?" John asked as Roy clutched his leg just under his pelvis.

"Yeah," Roy assured his partner. "But now I know for sure that red and blue make purple," he winced as the pen exploded as he withdrew it, spewing a small amount of blood that oozed volcano-like from the material tented between his fingers.

"Or you have purple blood, like on Star Trek, you know I heard they're thinking about a next generation someday," John said, inching closer to his partner for a better look. "The Klingons and Vulcans and all the other races have different colors of blood." He snapped his scissors open

"You are not cutting my pants off," Roy informed his partner. "And you don't have to do that, that thing you do when you're talking to patients trying to take their minds off stuff. I'm a Paramedic, a _red-blooded_, blue collared one for Pete's sake … but I do wonder if one of those green women would date a purple-blooded guy. Been tryin' to get Joanne to go to a Halloween party dressed as one of those green women for years."

John smiled. Even Roy fell prey to his unusual wit. He looked apologetic before clicking the scissor blades together again preparing to go where no man had gone before and wondering why not for the first time that he seemed to have his clothing cut off way more than Roy or the rest of the crew.

A grinding sound made both paramedics look up just in time to be showered with dust and debris from a welder's torch above.

Roy smacked an ember off his partner's shoulder as they both yelled for the workers to stop for a minute. Roy looked down just in time to see his paper pyro-ed by a stray ember. He shot to his feet and stomped out the flames with his uninjured foot and watched his nearly complete notes dissolve into an inky charred mess.

"Hey! Stop for a minute! You're gonna have to toss us an asbestos blanket before you can do that. And you might want to wait a couple of minutes for the shaft to ventilate or you might start a fire," John called up angrily clutching his shoulder and wrinkling his nose as the distinct smell of oil permeated the air.

An asbestos blanket was threaded through the new two inch opening about seven feet above them; they were indeed between floors. John fished for his flashlight before both men covered themselves with the blanket.

A long delayed utterance of, _sorry man _floated down to them followed by absolute silence_._

"Uh, what's goin' on up there?" Roy called loudly unwilling to stick his head out of the asbestos blanket to be heard more clearly lest the men start welding again without warning.

"Oh my boss said the crew could break for lunch while the shaft ventilates. Since I'm only a co-op student from the college they made me stay here to put up the cool, plastic, yellow tape that says _'out of service.'_

"Oh yeah?" Roy gritted out angrily. "Well, you know who else is out of service? Us! Now you go get your boss and get us out of here."

"I can't leave my post," the co-op student said with puffed up importance.

"If that kid doesn't go get his boss, he's not going to live long enough to graduate," Roy whispered in a deadly calm voice clutching once again at his thigh which was now pulsing in time to his heart.

Johnny shone his light on the temporarily forgotten wound. "You know, if I hadn't left my HT in the squad I'd call the guys to come get us," he groused.

Roy really wanted to point out that John rarely remembered his HT but as he didn't have his own his retort was gagged. Both men were now panting from heat but as the flimsy, charred ceiling tile continued to snow down they remained covered.

"Don't rub your eyes, Johnny, you'll scratch your corneas," Roy reminded even as his own eyes watered in misery from the dust and debris. We'll wash 'em out as soon as we get some saline. I can't believe we got stuck in here before we re-supplied."

"Well, we still have some four by fours and peroxide and I'm gonna have to take a look at that wound," John reiterated as his eyes watered creating paths through the chalky powder on his cheeks.

There was no sound from above. They took this as a good sign that co-op-boy as they'd dubbed him had left to get his boss and crew.

"Here, let me stretch it out a bit, it'll get it off quicker like that," John said, pulling Roy's leg toward him.

They ignored the shuffling footsteps above.

John held his flashlight between his teeth in the darkness under the blanket. It flashed across Roy's face momentarily causing him to blink more rapidly.

"Stop batting your eyelashes at me, you're gonna scratch your corneas," John said cheekily. "And with the white chalk on your face it makes you look like a flirting Geisha girl.

Roy glared at his younger partner who shuffled closer. He noted the pained expression on John's face and the heat emanating off his body. Though the burn on John's shoulder was small, it was causing him to sweat profusely. Burns hurt like hell no matter how small.

"You're really hot, Junior," Roy told John, flinching uncomfortably in the combined heat of the elevator, blanket and his partner.

"Hold still, will ya, I'm havin' trouble getting my hands all the way around it," John panted as beads of perspiration pelted down his back.

"I'm doing the best I can, can't you be gentler?" Roy shot back. "We're not used to doing this under a blanket; usually we're out in the open."

"Okay, I see the hole. It's small but oozing," John muttered, sounding muffled around the flashlight in his mouth as he peeled back some of the cloth he'd cut away.

There was more shuffling from above and a whistle.

"I can't hold this in my mouth any longer with all these fumes and heat I can barely breathe," John panted. "You're gonna halfta hold it yourself while I get the rest of this off."

There was an uncomfortable gasp from above.

"It's no use, Roy, I'm gonna have to cut your leg off to get at it," John sighed.

The thud of a body hitting the floor above them stopped them for a minute. It was after all a hospital. The two paramedics went back to the task at hand silently cursing co-op-boy for failing to return.

John handed Roy his pant leg and set about cleaning the wound which further spread the pen ink on Roy's skin as it mixed with the peroxide and bubbled.

"You know, you may need a couple of stitches to close this," John mused holding a four by four gauze which drank the ink and blood to form purple splotches on the other side of the white material. "And I read somewhere that inmates in jails use regular pen ink to make permanent tattoos. If any of this ink stays under your skin you might just have a tattoo, Pally. Maybe I can turn it into a nice butterfly for you or something. But then again if I turned it into a butterfly it'd look like Mothra from the Godzilla movies when you're eighty and get all saggy."

"You watch too much T.V." Roy ground out taking over holding the gauze himself and lifting it in an inadequately disguised attempt to find out if anything his partner was saying was true.

Loud voices from above told them that the crew had returned to much the same confusion as when they'd left.

"Why is our co-op passed out on the floor?" someone grouched. "Somebody call a doctor."

Roy and John exchanged _what the hell_ looks but as they were calling for a doctor anyway…

"Can you ask for two saline bags to be sent down with some tubing? We're gonna need to wash our eyes out," said Roy in a long suffering voice.

About three minutes later Dr. Early's voice drifted down to them with unnecessary instructions while a bag of saline and tubing contorted and squished between the gap and thudded down next to Roy through the newly dubbed sunroof of the elevator car.

"You guys doing alright?" came Early's voice.

"We're fine, Doc," Johnny assured.

"See me before you leave, I'll want to see your eyes," Early advised.

John opened his mouth just as Roy stopped him.

"Don't tell him about my leg," Roy advised. "He'll end up waiting up there, you know how he is. Let him get back to the E.R. so he can do his job."

"I already know about your leg, Roy," Early chuckled down to them. "We're a teaching hospital after all and it seems our maintenance co-op thought he'd learned a new lesson in human anatomy listening to you and Roy field triage each other. Oh, I'll need to see that shoulder too, John."

John groaned going over his choice of words in his head – _can't get my hands around it, can't breathe with this thing in my mouth…_

"What! He thought … What? … Twit!" Roy yelled, borrowing one of Cap's favorite terms.

"Don't try to leave without being seen," Early reminded as his face disappeared from the two inch gap above.

"No sir," John and Roy both said guiltily, knowing there was no way they would be on time for their meeting.

Roy looked at the ruined notes, his chalky, wet blue shirt and his partner's singed shoulder and sighed.

"I'm sure they'll tell us what it was about," Roy assured squeezing out the remaining sterile saline over John's shoulder before they both sat back down wearily.

"Urgh, that's cold!" John shivered.

"No it's not," Roy assured his partner cheekily. "It's just hot in here so the saline feels cold."

"Thank you, Mr. Science," John replied. "I was enjoying the warmth in here to tell you the truth it's so cold outside."

"Supposed to be an unseasonably cold June," Roy said. "The kids have never had to wear their jackets this late. The weather's forecast to affect the tourism industry."

"Well, that's sad for business but probably good for us," John said. "No heatstroke victims who aren't used to the temperatures and not drinking enough water and less drownings."

"Well, this weather won't stop the surfers," Roy reminded his partner.

"Nothing would stop a surfer," agreed John. "Huh, what do you know, trapped together for …" He looked at his watch. "Only a half hour and we're already reduced to talking about the weather."

"We could talk about the meeting…" Roy teased to take his partner's mind off the sting that was clearly starting again on his shoulder.

The elevator gave an alarming lurch causing both paramedics to grab the railings usually reserved for unsteady patients before grinding upwards with a smoky plume and stopping about two feet from the nearest floor. Hands reached down to assist the paramedics in their expected climb.

Roy gulped before allowing himself to reach for one of the proffered palms. Thanks to his partner he'd seen the horror movie where the stuck elevator suddenly crashed, swallowing half of its victim in one bite before plunging to the bottom of the shaft to digest.

John grinned in a knowing way and grabbed the hand and was whisked to safety. In seconds his shaggy main of hair hung over the edge causing a shudder to ripple through the senior paramedic.

"Come on up, the weather's fine," John encouraged.

Roy took a deep breath and was whisked up in seconds landing on both feet and stepping as far away from the jaws of death as possible very thankful that Chet wasn't present. Before John could rib him about the fear that only he'd seen, Roy marched him off to the E.R. … down the stairs despite his own limp.

John gave up trying his winning smile at the nurses in the stairwells; they only had eyes for Roy's unique pants.

XXXX

An hour and four inspected eyes, one inspected shoulder and three stitches later, the weary men sat in the squad and made their way back to their station.

XXXX

Marco, Chet, Mike and Cap sat around the table, abandoned coffee and cookies pushed aside to make room for glossy brochures with people in white coats smiling up from the covers.

"Roy, John, we heard you had some trouble at Rampart, why don't you get cleaned up and join us in ten … um, I have to ask though, why are you half dressed?" Cap's eyes inched up and down at his literal and accurate description of Roy's pants in particular.

"Well, you see, Cap, the question shouldn't be, why are we _half_ dressed; the nurses were sorta wondering why were half _un_dressed. It's all in how you look at it, am I right, Roy?" John said wagging his brows.

Roy steered his partner toward the door into the bay. John almost bumped into it, forgetting to push it open whilst craning his neck back at Chet who uncharacteristically said nothing about his and Roy's bedraggled appearance and the dangling hook, line and sinker about the nurses John cast.

"Well that was weird," John remarked once he and Roy were at their lockers.

"What was weird?" Roy asked as he sighed pulling a warm towel across his face and reaching for a clean shirt.

"Chet. He usually has some smart remark when we're late, you know, like goading Cap into giving us latrine duty or something."

"We were technically at work, so we can't be late,"

"Yeah, but did you notice the … I dunno … pissed mist? Silence?"

"Let's just go see what's going on before we make any assumptions," Roy soothed, gratefully ditching his shorts/pants combo for turnout pants.

XXXX

Slightly refreshed, Roy and John made their way to the kitchen. John snatched a cookie mid-bite from Chet, turned a chair backwards and sat down facing the paper-strewn table. In seconds his mouth went dry and the cookie crumbs scraped down his throat as the hated face of Marcus Parkham from his childhood on the reservation leapt off the glossy brochure.

"You okay there, Gage? Geez, have my coffee too if it'll stop you from spraying us with cookie shrapnel," Chet said, handing over his coffee mug with feigned indifference to the suddenly reddened face of his shift mate.

John accepted the mug of cold coffee to wash down the boulders of Oreo Mountain he'd apparently swallowed.

Noting the change from red from choking to pale, Roy leaned closer to his partner. "You okay, Junior?"

"Y – yeah. Uh, fine," John rasped trying to avert his eyes from the brochures.

Cap paused long enough for Gage to compose himself but noted that his paramedic fidgeted more than was usual during meetings and kept stealing nervous glances at the brochures on the table.

"So to sum up what we've been discussing," Cap turned to Gage and Desoto. "A group of anthropologists and psychiatrists have teamed up to come up with better ways to uh … um…"

"Tell our families when our sweet chariot's come to carry us home," grumbled Chet.

"What!" yelled John, standing up and spilling the cold coffee with cookie backwash all over the falsely benign face of Marcus Parkham. "We already have a benevolent team and HQ's got that covered. We don't need these…"

But what they didn't need John wouldn't say. He clamped his hand across his mouth unwilling to have any dealings with these people ever again, unwilling to tell his shift mates why this was a supremely bad idea. As Mike got up and got a cloth to clean up the mess, John stared at Chet daring him to say something; anything. He held his breath just waiting for the smart remark that was bound to come next. But Chet apparently didn't remember Marcus Parkham's name from the book he'd read about the man's so called philanthropically inspired study into Native American culture on the reserve John had grown up on and according to John had made his life a living hell.

Mike flicked coffee and cookie crumbs off the still smiling, wet anthropologists and psychiatrists into the sink as his mind wandered away from the heavy subject of being killed in the line of duty as he watched the coffee stains swirl into Rorschach tests of overturned engines and charred remains before going down the drain. Gage's reaction to the idea that death on the job needed to be studied had bothered him quite as much as the young paramedic but as usual he'd sat quiet and said nothing. Truth was, being killed on the job was never far from any of his shift mate's minds.

Cap pinched the bridge of his long nose as voices joined John's in vehement disapproval of what the anthropologists hoped to accomplish with their studies of the fire department personnel.

Marco flipped through his copy of the brochure. "Dios! They want us to write letters to our families that would be delivered to them if we died on the job? How is it that anthropologists want to study fire department personnel? Aren't they supposed to study cultures and ways of life?"

"In essence yes, Marco," Cap sighed, but the anthropologist, Marcus Parkham heading this study has convinced HQ that fire department and police personnel have a culture of their own, a brotherhood as he puts it," Cap continued, his finger moving along the tiny print on the only dry brochure left. Look, I know this all sounds macabre but these people have apparently spent six months talking to families of fire department and police personnel who have lost a loved one in the line of duty. Their research apparently came up with the fact that the families look for more than what HQ representatives can provide when they show up on the doorstep of an affected family."

"Uh, yeah, they can't exactly give you guys back, can they?" Gage asked angrily staring at Chet, willing him to recognize the name of the anthropologist from the book about life on the reservation even though it would cost him if Chet started to squawk about his heritage again. At least it would be Chet who started a dialogue and wouldn't seem as if John was whining or something, he reasoned. John thumped the table with a lightly folded fist.

John's choice of words stayed Cap's anger. He hadn't included himself in the '_give you guys back' _retort. John had no living family to be given back to. There was awkward silence for a moment until Mike returned with only moderately wet brochures which he placed on the table.

Roy's lips moved as he read silently until he looked up. "It says here the letters we write, if we choose to participate will be kept private at HQ until – well, until … You know, it's not like we haven't thought about what'll happen to our families if … I mean, now that I think of it, Jen's only six and Chris is eight. How much will they remember about me?"

"We'd take care of them, Roy, they wouldn't forget you," John replied, sounding oddly insulted.

Before Roy had a chance to explain what he'd meant, Mike leaned on his elbows in deep thought.

"You guys know Beth's nearly due with the baby. What if I got killed before she has the baby? I don't know what to write, I mean I haven't even met him yet … or her," Mike added sheepishly. It was a well known fact that Mike's locker contained a tiny baseball glove which he intended to give to either his baby son or daughter.

"You guys got this all wrong," John said in his opinionated voice everyone knew. "How do you know these people aren't going to just open your letters and read them? I mean their intention is _study_ us." His hand splayed on his chest for emphasis.

"Oh come on, Gage don't be so paranoid. I mean we're firemen and cops, no one's gonna mess with us. They just wanna help out our families … right, Cap?" Chet said.

And so the doubts started, Gage putting as much fuel into the fire as he could without revealing the real reason he didn't want his brothers involved with the leeches leering up from the brochures. Just two weeks ago he'd refused a phone call at the station from one of Parkham's old interns that he hadn't seen since he was twelve, wanting to do a follow up interview on the so called one in a million success story from the reservation. John bristled with indignation at the memory.

"… And this is sort of bad luck," Marco said quietly, his Saint Florien medallion spinning dizzily though his fingers.

"And kind of insulting too," Mike added. "Like we intend to go get ourselves killed, like we don't have each other's backs or something."

"Look, guys, I know where this is coming from, but I have to say we have been very blessed as a shift, as a station really. At my last station I had to inform a family of their son's death. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do and the families reach out for more than you can give at that moment. The more I think about it, it might be nice to have something to give them."

Cap was right, damn it.

"I want Chris and Jen to know why I am a … um, why I _was_ a paramedic," Roy said quietly. "I want them to know that I love = _loved _my job. God this is hard."

"I'm gonna give it a try," Mike said solemnly looking a little sick.

John opened and closed his mouth quickly as his shift mates each drew sheets of lined paper towards themselves, picturing a loaded pistol before the game of Russian roulette would begin.

_Don't do this! Don't write!_ John screamed inside his head wishing for all the world that he could just come out and tell his shift mates who the man heading up the project really was without being ridiculed by Chet and by extension everyone else. That chapter at the station had finally ended but not before it had nearly cost John his best friend and maybe even a transfer to another station.

John's jaw jumped as his shift mates balled up paper after paper in frustration tossing the tight balls into a pile on the middle of the table that was worthy of a fire hazard.

"Is this meeting of the minds over or do I have to sit here and watch you guys have a pity party?" John groused.

Cap's eyebrows rose.

Roy watched Cap deliberate what to say to his partner.

"Technically, yes, John, the meeting's over but I think you should reconsider your stance on the matter and don't discourage your shift mates from exercising their right to participate in this program," Cap said firmly. He looked like he wanted to say more but John cut across him.

"Well, you guys go ahead and write your black letters and see where it gets you. This is just…"

"You're dismissed, John," Cap said not unkindly but firmly. The slamming of the door and stomping footsteps and muttering about ineptitude and lack of foresight would no doubt earn John a meeting with Cap later.

Roy balled up another paper and his and Mike's papers collided midair knocking both off the table.

"Foul ball!" Chet called out in the hopes of lightning things up a bit.

"Look, Cap, John had a hard day, I'm sure he didn't mean to be insubordinate," Roy explained.

Cap was going to say something when Stoker stood up in a poor imitation of needing to stretch.

"I can't write this, I mean, every time I pick up the pen I'm writing to someone I've never met and I'm writing it to a baby. What if we write these letters and we get killed in ten years and then my ten year old opens the letter and it's for a baby? How often are we supposed to sit down and contemplate our own deaths to update these letters? This just isn't working, Cap."

The papers were cleaned from the table but the heavy burden of unspoken and unwritten words hung in the air like an expected back draft._ Sorry I died … Sorry I never got to see you graduate … never met my grandchildren _… But never sorry for trying to save people; and how did one fit that in without sounding selfish? Cap slipped from the room as a fresh pot of coffee was put on and made his way to the bay.

XXXX

John made deliberate noise as he lay beneath the squad. The clang and bang of the tools did nothing to quell the memories from his past. Worse, he'd been insubordinate to Cap, the man who had been nothing but nice to him. But seeing Cap standing there with those brochures looking so trusting … it was wrong, it was familiar…

XXXX

_Twelve year old John blew in the door like a whirlwind after his last day of school, shoes tied together by laces reduced to strings and slung around his neck, socks probably long since lost and his bare feet the color of new grass. His smile faded just a bit. The kitchen didn't smell of fresh baked cookies like it always did on June twenty-fifth. There were two strangers seated across from his mother._

_Mrs Gage smiled fondly at her son, not noticing the young Marcus Parkham's pen click and the scratch of hurried writing across fine white pages as his eyes raked down his nose to take in the bare footed child from the toes up. Parkham's facial expression changed to jovial neutrality the minute Mrs. Gage began her introductions but John hadn't missed the eyebrow raise, the automatic judgement._

"_Mr. Parkham, Ms. Parquette, this is my son, Johnny."_

_Johnny smiled politely, wiped his hands down the side of his jeans, which were rolled up to his knees and offered his hand to shake. Parkham shook it and Paquette merely nodded in his general direction. _

"_Mr. Parkham will be staying in your father's old den for a week, then he'll be staying with the Young's down the street for a week and rotating around the reservation for the summer," Mrs. Gage told Johnny._

_Johnny's back stiffened. His father had been dead for a year. Johnny held onto his memory by sitting in his den often and reading the many books that lined the shelves, falling asleep in his dad's old leather armchair. The twelve year old bit his tongue and tried not to be rude, but failed, as was his way._

"_Why?" _

_Johns' mother looked down at her lap. "Mr. Parkham will be paying room and board. He's going to try to help our community, identify some of the unique needs and … maybe find a way to bring jobs here."_

_John closed his mouth. Things had been tight since his father died. His mother sold baked goods to friends and neighbors and was trying to obtain a government license to bake and sell to the greater community and tourists and buy a commercial oven. Mom tried to hide rent past-due notices but John had found two of them. He gulped. It was time to be a man. _

"_Oh … Oh, well then, that-that's great," he stuttered._

_Mom could always tell when he was upset. His mild stutter returned. She placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. Her eyes spoke of apology._

"_Um, let-let me just get the room ready for you, Mr. Parkham," the new man of the house said as he tried and failed to refrain from bolting from the room._

_Inside his father's study he shut the door. He sat in the old armchair, sniffed the worn leather, swearing a bit of Old Spice lingered. The man downstairs would not sit in his father's chair but John would not disappoint his mother. _

_John towed the heavy chair across the old, creaky, wooden floorboards to his room across the hall. It was a well-worn path. Often were the times his dad would grab a book after a hard day's work and drag that chair into his son's room for an hour of reading. In the morning, the chair would be gone, John having no memory if he fell asleep before or after the crocodile swallowed the evil pirate's hand, the story so well loved and repeated with patience time after time. He also didn't know that this summer would be the one he would become a Lost Boy. _

_John set up the cot in the den, fitting it with clean sheets and blankets. He placed clean towels at the end of the bed, a familiar task from when his aunt visited, only then, the old chair stayed in its place, Aunt Rose taking up different tales of blustery seas and mean old captains and vengeful whales. Those were good times. John wasn't quite as careful about smoothing out the sheets as he was for Aunt Rose. He doubted very much the man downstairs read anything but ticker tapes and stock magazines. _

_John straightened the hand-woven tapestry on the wall made by his great-great grandmother. He quickly ran a soft cloth over wooden carvings of bison and rabbits made by his ancestors and smoothed a throw rug on the wooden floor. His tasks completed, John sat with his hands on his knees on the top step listening to the conversation downstairs._

"_So your husband was lead hand on the ranch?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And you managed to keep up the rent on the house? But where does the current ranch lead hand live?"_

"_Oh, that's George Mendenhall, he's a good family friend. He has a twenty minute commute to the ranch but he said he'd never want to uproot Johnny for the sake of a few miles, bless him," replied Mrs. Gage. _

_Johnny heard the strain in her voice. She didn't mention the rent troubles. _

_That night cigar smoke wafted from under the door of Dad's study. John crinkled his nose at the smell. In the morning at the park the kids smelled the new odor of tobacco on him and asked him in earnest about the new man in the house; "how long is he staying? Why is he there? Is he experimenting on you?" _

_The same questions were asked of Doris Blackhawk whose family was blessed with the presence of not one but three female anthropologists for the week before they'd move on to stay with another family on the reservation._

"_Don't be stupid, they're not experimenting on us," Doris had said. Boy was she wrong. They might not have been removing skull caps to have a look around inside their brains like little David Sun had speculated they were going to do (which prompted some of the younger children to wear hats to bed for the rest of Parkham's visit) but they were using the whole reservation as one big laboratory and its people were the lab rats._

_Parkham made a habit of following John to the barn each day to watch him do chores. He'd ask questions that John didn't want to answer but felt he had to in order to keep Parkhams's money coming into the house for the week. The tobacco smoke was John's constant companion and though he coughed while raking out straw in the cow barns Parkham wasn't deterred from puffing away and sipping on cold lemonade as he scratched out paragraph after paragraph, which Johnny thought odd since he'd given one or two word answers at best at a time. The week couldn't end soon enough._

_John angrily stomped out a cigar that Parkham had failed to fully snuff. _

"_Um, you really can't leave a lit cigar in here."_

"_I left it inside a drinking glass; it's not my fault you knocked over the glass with the shovel."_

"_It's a pitch fork … oh never mind!" _

_John refrained from talking to his young horse, Pattycake as he so often did when he mucked out the stalls when he was alone. The little black and white was so named because of well … the little … cakes that he had to muck out each day. It was his intention to enter her in the pet category at the local fair. He hoped that despite of the fact that she fancied herself a cow since she'd lived with cows all her life, she might even let him ride her one day. _

_On the fifth day of Parkham's Inquisition as the children at the park had so named it now that there were steady reports from Doris, Johnny and two other kids, Parkham finally took things too far. _

"_So your mother … does she seem lonely since your father's death? … He was your father, yes?" _

_John opened and closed his mouth several times, the pitch fork in his long arms shaking slightly not from the labor but from the implication he felt creep up his spine. Ice swished in Parkham's glass, a smoke ring circled lazily past John's left ear. That night, John did not sleep. He sat on the top step listening to the sounds of a very expensive portable typewriter clack away and gagged on the stench of cigar smoke. His mother slept downstairs. He would protect her from their guest's cruel words. There was something not quite right about the way Parkham watched her bake and do the chores._

_The week dragged. On the final day of Parkham's stay, John's mother sent him upstairs with a pitcher of iced tea for their guest. Ice danced in the tea clanking against the tall glass pitcher. Droplets of condensation slid over his fingers. He concentrated on the sound and the coolness, getting himself under control, trying to plaster a smile on his face but settling for general neutrality. He knocked. The door opened. Marcus Parkham turned his back on John not accepting the tray but willing him inside to place it on the desk._

"_How old would say this tapestry is?" Parkham asked gesturing to the ornate wall hanging whilst holding up an empty glass waiting to be served. _

"_I don't know … sir," John lied lifting the pitcher and pouring the tea. He gritted his teeth as Parkham didn't bother to wipe the moisture from his fingers before he pawed the fine thread work._

_Parkham studied the subject of the tapestry whilst penciling some information onto a notepad on the desk, his tea spilling slightly over the rim of the glass. "Is this your family history, boy?"_

_The tapestry depicted a journey of a man and a woman; snow flew around the wisps of her long dark hair sticking out from a leather hood framed in fur; beside her stood a tall man also with dark hair. Dogs pulled a large pack. A transition in the middle of the tapestry was marked by a tall tree on which one side stood barren and lonely while on the other side was full of colored leaves and blossoms. On that side stood the man and woman in summer, a small, swaddled bundle in their arms from which only two tiny eyes were seen; John's great-great grandparents. In the background was a tepee. John cringed. Parkham looked at him when he didn't answer. John wasn't ashamed of his history so why did he feel like Parkham was trying to picture him in the clothing of his forefathers? _

"_Uh, yes. Listen, I'm going down to watch some TV, do you need anything else?" John made sure to emphasize the fact that yes, he did have a television set, he wasn't off to make arrowheads or dance around a fire. John was ashamed of himself for such thoughts. Parkham and people like him were the reason his culture was dying. The old language was all but dead, known only by a few tribal elders, the joyful, beautiful dances were a thing of the past, practiced only at times of festivals for tourists and cultural events and known only by a few. _

_Parkham picked up one of the old carvings and put it back down into the puddle of tea on the desk. John could almost feel his ancestors breathing on the back of his neck. He strode forward and plucked the carving up, wiped the bottom and placed it back on the shelf. Parkham seemed to take no notice as he prodded the young man who had asked to be excused._

"_These slippers are most comfortable, they could be sewn better however," Parkham commented. He lifted his fat foot up to demonstrate and John felt heat swoop up from his stomach. John had forgotten to take his father's slippers from under the bed. So much wanted to spew from his mouth but he swallowed it back down. He remembered his mother coming home, laughter on her lips as she gave the slippers to his father, telling him that she had taken a course in leather work at the recreation center that was taught by one of the tribal elders. His mother was a proud, modern woman who believed in keeping the past alive. She'd taken beading courses, sewing courses and even dabbled in learning the old language._

"_Handmade I'd guess?" Parkham pursed._

"_My mom made those," John whispered._

"_Oh, and did you father hunt the animal from which the hide came?" Parkham said, leaning forward looking positively hungry, pencil poised. _

"_What? No! My father is … was ranch lead hand. My mother made them in a culture course at the rec center. We buy our clothing from a store just like you. It's the sixties…"_

"_I see," said Parkham looking very disappointed. You may go, mind you bring my cocoa by nine sharp."_

_John closed the door breathing very fast. _

_XXXX_

_Parkham paid the agreed room and board but made a point of not giving more despite the fact that he'd been treated like family and despite his bad manners and the extra cleaning it would take to rid the house of his atrocious smoke. His indication that Mrs. Gage could have earned more for being more 'companionable' undid her son who showed him the door the hard way, earning himself an entire chapter in the study that was released the following winter. It also earned him more attention from the anthros as he called them, who were hungry to see the angry youth on the reservation that they were predisposed to see, having been Parkham's grad students and all. _

_Johnny tried to play baseball after his chores, the anthros were there, waiting for him to fail. His friends stood by him for awhile until they could no longer stand the scrutiny and question periods that would eat all the spare time to play. Finally he just stayed home, venturing out to his best friend, Ben's house only when he was sure the anthros were having their secret meetings. _

"_Man, I can't take it anymore. They're going home at the end of August and that gives us only one week before school starts up again. They've ruined the whole summer!"_

"_They asked my dad if he'd ever slept in a tee pee," groaned Ben. _

"_They probably think people in Canada live in igloos too," John said, rolling his eyes. _

"_Didn't they go to school?" Ben asked._

"_Yeah, too much school, no living," John replied bitterly. _

_The boys played Battleship and John was relieved to be asked to sleep over. They stayed up late, hyper on marshmallows they roasted over a fire Ben's dad started for them. The tolling of the bells from the nearby town hall awakened them sometime later. John sat bolt upright, running to the window and sagging in relief. He and Ben had indeed put their fire out. But there was a fire somewhere. _

_Ben Sr. stopped the boys from running off the front porch. The fire was down the block in the cow barns near Johnny's home. _

"_But Pattycake is in there!" cried John, tears in his eyes. _

"_Stay here, the volunteers are already deploying."_

_John did stay there. Until Ben's dad ran down the road to assist. John waited until he was out of sight and took off down the back alley path to the barn and up the back ramp flinging open the double doors. _

_Pattycake was free from her pen, rearing in panic back and forth across the sparking embers. Bales of straw were fully engulfed in the corner and fire was licking across the hundred year old beams. Individual pieces of straw floated almost lazily on the hot drafts setting new fires like matchsticks to candles. Coughing met John's ears and he covered his mouth and nose with the v-neck flannel of his pyjama top and ran inside. _

"_Mom!" Johnny cried. _

_Mrs Gage was caught under a fallen beam. She coughed and a small trickle of blood escaped down her parched lips. Johnny put all his strength into trying to move the beam. When it wouldn't budge he fell to his knees and started clawing straw out from under her. The smoke got thicker and John swore he smelled the foul cigar smoke mingled with the wood and straw. It was seconds before the assembled volunteer fire department knocked open the front doors of the structure._

"_Help! Over here!" John coughed, yelping as he pulled his hand away from super heated nails in the beam he gripped with renewed hope. His eyes burned, the ever-approaching firewall reflecting in his dark orbs. The shirt did nothing to keep the smoke from his mouth and lungs. _

_Several people entered. John screamed and protested but he was no heavyweight and someone easily picked him up and carried him outside._

"_Easy son, we're gonna get her out. It's gonna be okay."_

_Things happened quickly. Fire trucks from nearby townships arrived. Pattycake burst from the barn and took off at a full, frantic gallop, her tail smouldering, and his mother was carried out, limp, frail and silent._

_John tried to get up but an oxygen mask was clamped on his mouth and nose and he was restrained. _

"_How's my mom … I couldn't get the beam off her … She must have been trying to save the animals."_

"_Sh, it's okay," someone said, patting his chest lightly. "You need to lie down and take some nice deep breaths. It's all going to be okay."_

_But it wasn't. _

_John didn't feel the burns to his hands; just the warmth that took all the fear and chest tightness away after a quick sting in his arm._

_XXXX _

_Ben's dad entered John's hospital room. He drew the curtain closed to give John some privacy from the other five children in the room and his slouched shoulders and deeply grieved sigh told John everything he needed to know._

"_Parkham killed my mother!" John screamed to Ben sr. until his already parched throat gave in and he was left shaking and sobbing into his shoulder. _

_Johh swore to everyone who would listen that he smelled cigar smoke in the barn. No one ever listened. No evidence was ever found and there had been lightning that night and several brush fires in nearby townships. _

_XXXX_

_Parkham was followed into the funeral by Paquette and his other devoted followers. He asked demeaning questions about the ability of the reservation's volunteer fire department to do their jobs. John had no quarrel with the firefighters, they had responded in literally minutes of the town hall bell tolls. This was nothing but smoke and mirrors to deflect what John would always solemnly believe happened the night his world ended. Marcus Parkham had killed his mother by careless smoking._

_After the funeral, John's hand twitched on the doorknob of his home. He opened the door into the kitchen. His mother's new stove stood in a corner, still in the box with just the top lifted as if his mother's excited hands had ripped it open to take a peak. Her recipes lay scattered around the box … but this wasn't right. Mom always kept the recipes in a tin on the second shelf above the sink. Things were out of place. _

_John gathered the recipes in his shaking fingers, placing them back on the shelf only to dissolve into tears at the realization that he'd never taste his mother's chocolate chip cookies again. It hit him that that particular recipe had been missing. It would have stood out against the clean white pages of the other recipes because it had been used so many times. Ripping the recipes back down, John delved through them again to be sure. It was gone. He spun around taking in the rest of the room.. Nothing seemed to be in the right spot, he couldn't put his finger on specifics through his clouded vision but something was very wrong._

_Running up the stairs two at a time, John burst into his father's den. He fell to his knees, his head turning in dismal awe. The tapestry was gone, as were the carvings and his father's slippers. All that remained was Parkham's autograph of white rings etched into the top of his father's desk from carelessly placed lemon-aid glasses and cocoa mugs. John staggered into his room, closing the door to his father's den as if it were a vortex from which he too might be stolen. He fell into his father's leather chair, turned his head into one of the wings and cried himself to sleep. The missing items were never recovered._

_John stayed with the Mendenhalls and with his best friend's family for the next two years. Money was tight for almost everyone on the reservation but John just seemed to melt into the walls. He ate little despite their coaxing and didn't complain when added to the growth chart of hand-me-down clothing from the Mendenhall's or Ben's siblings. He mechanically did his chores, went to school and breathed in and out, People were nice to him but he just didn't seem to be thriving. The firefighters volunteer and paid, on and off the reservation raised money for a partial scholarship for the young orphan. _

_Marcus Parkham never came back to the reservation but his students flocked there every year making life miserable. No prosperity came from the studies, nothing changed. Aunt Rose from California had a meeting with the tribal elders when John was fourteen that it was perhaps in John's best interest to move from the reservation since he was particularly disturbed by the close scrutiny of the 'visitors'. _

_With tearful farewells, John packed up his belongings. George Mendenhall who'd moved into John's former home only out of need to have a lead hand close to the farm called John back inside as Aunt Rose and Mrs Mendenhall hugged each other goodbye and Aunt Rose thanked Ben's family and those gathered for their kindness in taking care of John who couldn't until now bring himself to come to California with her. _

"_John, I know how much this chair means to you. I know your dad used to take care of farm bills and other paperwork in here but I've seen you sit in it and it's the only time you truly look at peace. Aunt Rose's Station Wagon is a capable car and I've rented you a trailer to take it with you. _

"_I don't know what to say," John said, touching the leather lovingly. That chair followed him through college and into his present apartment. And once in awhile, just a whiff of Old Spice wafted through the air … or his imagination. It didn't matter; Dad and Mom were never far away. _

XXXX

John dropped a wrench, swearing loudly and hoping no one heard as it dragged him from his past.

XXXX

"Something you want to talk about, John?" Cap asked, affording his paramedic the dignity of remaining under the squad and not having to retreat to the office.

"Other than to apologize, no sir," John said stoutly.

"Well, look, the guys are coming over to my place on Friday night for a couple of beers and we might discuss this. You're more than welcome to come."

"Mike'll love you for that, Cap," John said, smiling from under the squad. "Mike's been dying for someone to adopt him for Friday so he doesn't have to attend that baby shower Joanne's having for Beth. Roy'll be happy too, it'll get him out of helping out with the shower. Even Chet will be happy, he won't have to make up a story about a great Friday night date and you know Mama Lopez will send lasagne to both the shower and any meeting at your house so win-win for everyone."

"I hope you'll come too," Cap coaxed but with that he made his way to his office to not finish the never ending paper work.

XXXX

Roy approached the squad quietly wanting to get a reading on his partner's mood without being seen. John was muttering incoherently but Roy could pick up on the tone that was set by the background noise of tools being dropped and picked back up to fix the knocking Gage always heard when he was troubled.

"Knocking again, huh?"

John slid halfway out from under the vehicle so it was possible to see his face in the shadow of the bumper.

"Nah, just thought she could use a tune up, that's all." John shrugged, making the little wheeled board he was laying on tilt just a little so that his whole face came into the light.

Roy hadn't anticipated that. It was supposed to go a certain way. He was supposed to try to listen to the knock John heard, not hear it and end up getting to the bottom of whatever was bothering him. He stood there wondering when the rules changed.

"I uh, thought I heard some knocking earlier when we were on our way to Rampart," Roy tried.

"That wasn't it," Gage said.

Roy counted to ten.

"That knocking you heard was just because the gas tank's full. It always does that when the tank's newly filled," John said

"Okay … Good to know."

"Roy, look man, I'm sorry … for earlier. I just …"

And Roy knew he wasn't going to get an answer yet. Figuring this out was gonna be a tough one. He'd wait for the rant. The rant was inevitable; his partner practically invented them. But it would wait. The tones sounded.

XXXX

For a person so deeply affected by certain events, John could always be counted on to suspend any personal troubles or misgivings and concentrate one hundred percent on his job. Roy was the same. It was a good feeling. Each man knew they were covered and the outcome would be the best they could possibly make for each victim.

They pulled up in the back of Woo Hoo's Waterslide Park. Wordlessly, John pointed to a huge, six-story, blue plastic slide as he jumped out and began to gather their equipment. Roy followed his finger as he grabbed the O2 and biophone. Big Red pulled up next to them. Cap immediately called for a snorkel truck. The manager who couldn't have been more than eighteen met them at the back gate. He wore a white lifeguard t-shirt with a huge red cross on the front and back.

"You've gotta help me … him I mean. It's employee appreciation day … probably 'cause it's too cold to get any customers. The owner phoned and said we could use the equipment. He said he had the Waga Waga run fixed but …" The young man pointed. Two sections of the slide had come apart. Water poured from the broken edge down to the other part of the jagged tube about two feet from the join but still standing. For now. Most disturbing was the lone figure, dangling in between the two joins by his upper body and one foot tenuously perched on the sharp, broken edge of the lower tube.

Cap eyed the structural supports beneath the twisted, interconnecting tubing from several waterslides. There was no room for the men to set up a mat underneath. A fall would mean certain death even if the victim managed to fall inside the slide. The end of the slide no longer led to a gratifying splashdown into a pool, it twisted and tilted to a cement pad when it uncoupled.

"Chet, get that water shut off, Mike and Marco, check out the structural safety of the climbing platform. Roy, John, get your gear. We're gonna do what we can until the snorkel company gets here."

A round of _aye Cap! _chorused through the men as they set about their duties. Cap grabbed a bullhorn.

"What's his name?" Cap asked the trembling young manager.

"Brian."

Cap pressed the button on the bullhorn. "Brian. Just hang on, we're gonna get you out. You're gonna be fine."

Everyone on the ground reacted like a grenade went off when the teen victim managed to yell back, his voice echoing eerily in the tubes muffled by the water trickling into his panicked face. "I can't … hold on … any longer."

"Okay, listen, someone's gonna come for you. You just gotta hold on for a little longer. Everything's gonna be okay."

"My hand's cut. I can't hold on anymore."

Cap's heart sunk at the words when his HT crackled to life.

"Cap, it's John here. Mike and Marco are confident the service climbing structure is safe. Chet's got the water shut off as best he could. We're going up."

Cap gave permission and had to hope that the snorkel truck would be there before one of his men had to try a rescue from above but as soon as word was given his youngest paramedic monkey-climbed up the steel ladder followed by Roy.

As soon as John neared the top the Vader-like breathing met his ears. The victim coughed intermittently and tried to suck air thorough the still dripping tubes from faulty washers in the hoses connected to the top of the slide.

"Help me, I'm gonna fall," the victim pleaded.

"No. You're not," John said with as much authority as he could muster. "Not after my poor partner had to climb all the way up here to save you. He hates climbing. If you fall, I'm gonna have a really bad afternoon listening to him whine about climbing up here for nuthin'," Gage smiled down at the young man through a gap in the ladder.

That statement seemed to confuse the young man and take his mind momentarily from his peril.

It was a classic tactic and Roy smiled at his partner for his quick thinking in engaging the teenager, whose arms were beginning to shake from the stress of holding on. Blood ran down his arm and dripped into the lower slide to disappear into a pink swirl. It was a miracle the kid hadn't passed out from blood loss.

"I climb this every … every day," Brian said stoutly, directing his tilted gaze toward Roy.

"Then you might want to consider being a fireman when you're a bit older," the senior paramedic said. "If you're anything like monkey-boy here, you'll be a natural. Now, just hold on a bit longer and we'll get you down and patched up and I can take a nap," Roy said feigning a slight fear of heights and weariness.

"Who're you callin' monkey boy?" Gage said for Brian's benefit, putting on a harness and trying to gauge how much rope he'd need so as not to knock the kid right off the end of the slide and plummet himself over the incredibly sharp edge.

Roy did not like this scenario one bit but he knew it was the only chance they'd get to save Brian. Already the victim's eyes were beginning to droop and his head tilted back a few times. Roy tried to keep up the banter as best he could as it seemed to keep the kid calm and focused.

"Call 'em as I see 'em," Roy teased, all the while keeping an ear and eye out for the snorkel truck. He turned to John and quietly said. "Look, John, this slide's unstable. You could get in there and the whole thing could fall."

"We can't wait for the ladder. This kid's got minutes if he's lucky," John whispered back. "I'm the lightest. This is the only option."

"I think we got the rope estimation right, Johnny. You should stop about two feet from him and then we'll try to control your descent real slow so you can reach 'im," Mike said, handing John the safety hook while Roy set up one for the victim. John took the proffered harness and before Roy could say another word slithered into the slide and whipped out of sight.

Roy knew John's descent was quick for a good reason. Without full water flow he could fetch up if he didn't just go with it and fall and the strain on the slide would be too much. He held his breath waiting for the rope to tauten.

The lack of water in the slide somersaulted the young paramedic unexpectedly, the rope fetching up on his neck on the outside of his turnout coat. His hands groped for something to stop his fall but were met with slimy plastic. He tried to dig his fingernails in at every uneven join to no avail.

"OOF!"

The rope tautened with a harsh jerk in Mike, Marco and Chet's hands. Roy looked for John's shadow in the slide, which should have been two feet above their victim who was still bouncing from the sudden jolt above. Brian's foot lost purchase on the lower tube and Roy wanted to close his eyes but the kid's kicking limbs finally gained tenuous footing again.

"Johnny!"

No answer. Roy's eyes roamed the slide until he found the folded shadow in an S-bend.

Inside the darkened tube John's eyes bulged. The rope wound around his neck on the outside of his turnout coat. He had seconds. The pressure was unbearable; the only thing keeping the rope from biting into his flesh was the heavy canvas. Black spots danced on the edge of his vision. He tried to straighten his body but his weight dangled from his neck, his back bent unnaturally around the S-bend when he uncoiled.

The idiot in him that could always be counted on to help him stay conscious vaguely wondered if this was what babies who had the umbilical chord wrapped around their necks during delivery felt like. He reached up and forced his hand in between the turnout coat and the rope. The washer in the shut off valve chose that moment to let some pressure off and a little river of water trickled into his already constricted airway.

Roy sighed in temporary relief when John coughed and gagged but the shadow in the slide stopped it immediately. John's legs were loudly kicking, trying to gain purchase and take some weight off his neck. It was like watching a game of hangman through a curtain.

But there were two victims here.

"Brian, listen, take it easy. We're comin' for ya. Try to hold on. Try to breathe," Roy coaxed.

While humor had kept the young man going before, Roy watched as his eyes tilted to the section of slide above him.

"You've gotta … help your partner, man. I think … he's strangling," Brian gasped, his arms shaking even worse.

"We're gonna get you both out. It's okay. It's gonna be okay," Roy lied as above Brian his partner's kicking feet were slowing down into half-hearted jerks and spasms.


	2. Chapter 2

Stoker was fighting his stomach, John's lifeline slack in his gloved hands, staring into the slide. "Should we try to get him back up? Give him more slack?"

The awful, at-a-loss feeling that firefighters dread swept over Marco, Chet and Mike.

Stoker made up his mind, telling Chet and Marco to ease up just a bit on the rope. They were horrified when they gave more slack and the rope simply coiled uselessly. Gage was fetched up on something in the slide, all control over the rope out of their hands.

"He's still moving. But I think if we haul 'im back up … we'll strangle him," Desoto shouted above the rushing water in the other slides. He called his partner's name again to no response, willing the damned snorkel truck to materialize at the ready.

"He's caught on something in the slide," Mike called to Roy, his eyes focused on the long shadow in the slide as if he cursed himself for not having X-ray vision.

XXXX

John spit water, his hand already numb from hooking his fingers under the rope to ease the strangulation, the other arm trying to relieve the weight of his body from his neck. He turned his head in an attempt to keep his carotid artery open.

"R … Roy!"

"John! You okay?" It was a dumb question and Roy knew it but what else could be said in this insane situation?

"M'a monkey-boy … r-remember?" John sucked in another breath when his feet found temporary purchase on a screw in the S-bend that never should have been sticking out on the inside but which John thanked God and lazy maintenance people for now. He sucked in a whole lungful of air, clearing some of the spots from his vision. He couldn't force himself upward enough to get the noose from around his neck, however.

The rope continued to shrink against the turnout and John flexed his cold fingers in defiance of the pressure. He had a job to do.

Brian's voice lost volume. "I can't hold on anymore. I'm sorry … tell my mom … tell her I love her, okay? I don't tell her that much now that I'm not a kid anymore. I'm sorry. I just can't."

How's my mom? She must have been saving the animals … Please I need to tell her something! John blinked away the ghosts that Brian's plea dredged up. His heart pounded and he raised his voice in defiance of his constricted airway. He tried to look down but the rope bit harder so he raised his chin and turned his head again.

"No. I won't t-tell her. You tell her yourself. I'm gonna … lower a harness to you. I can't … bring it to you. You're gonna half ta hold on for a … min … minute. When I drop it, you're gonna … half ta brace yourself and slip it over your shoulders, let it drop to your waist … and-and pull it tight."

_Oh Johnny no. _Roy's mind went on fast forward. He scrambled up to where his shift mates were holding the rope, all looking sick.

"He can't do this …" Marco gasped, horrified.

The kid was gonna fall, there was no doubt in any of the men's minds. Even if they could pull John up, he'd likely be hanged but the extra weight of the kid on his line would mean certain death too.

"He's gonna…" Chet gasped as the telltale clink of the extra hook sliding down toward their victim resounded in the slide.

Roy shook his head. Trust John, even in his state not to clunk the victim on the head with the hook. He couldn't wait for his partner to brag about this accomplishment, to go on about how he was an expert in all things roping. 'Cause somehow John Gage always managed to come back. Right?

So four men with hearts in their mouths listened as John painfully, between gasps, instructed Brian how to kill him.

"You're gonna half ta … let go with one hand, hold on with the other. The clip's real big so you … don't need a lot of dexterity. Once you're secure … Brian, listen, I really need you to hold on as long as you can still, but if you fall … you won't actually… _fall_. I won't … I won't be able to talk to you … anymore … if you let go, but don't … don't worry. My partner will get … you down."

If Roy could reach John about now he'd strangle him himself. Brian's arm shook and for a second, his outstretched arm wind-milled, shooting droplets of blood through the air. Roy couldn't do it. He couldn't hope that Brian fell before he could get himself harnessed so John wouldn't hang. They'd both made hard decisions in their careers, had a lot of regrets too. But this was one rescue John may not live long enough to regret.

"I got it. I'm … fastened," Brian's strained voice cried out. "Can't they … can't they pull us up?"

The extra tugging took its toll on John. The rope stabilized now that Brian was no longer moving. Tears strained from the young paramedic's bulging eyes as he forced his head to turn once again but this time the spots didn't disappear from his ever-narrowing vision.

"No … but you're okay now. You're not gonna fall if you pass out … but I gotta ask you again. I know … I know it's hard … but please try to hold on until we can get you, don't let go?" _Don't kill me._

Brian caught the plea-like quality in John's voice. He didn't think it possible to be any more scared but now that the fear of dying was at least a little at bay, there was another tension in the hollow of the slide. Some of his weight was now supported from above and he breathed a bit easier, more aware of what was going on around him.

"Dude … are you … why didn't you come down to get me?" It wasn't an accusation, it was a question and John didn't miss the concern in the young voice.

"I uh … I'm stuck," John told the boy honestly. It was obvious that the young lifeguard was aware of a problem. "But those – those guys u – up there are gonna get us down. We're safe now."

The rope gripped tighter and released cold water down John's shaking body. John cried out for a nano second as his boot heel lost purchase on the screw, and then his voice was silenced. He dangled, the extra weight pulling his neck sideways as he fought to shove his fingers further into the space between the turnout and the rope. He forced himself to breathe when he could finally tilt his head upward elongating the screaming tendons in his neck. His other arm shot above his head to grab the rope and he pulled with what strength he had left, kicking violently. The hand that held the rope from his neck slipped through up to his wrist but didn't allow for any swivel in the limb with which to free himself. John had to be content just to breathe for a minute but the rope and his own wrist's pressure was still choking him. The spots in his vision disappeared along with the plastic-muted cloudy light and everything else. The world was black and suddenly the sound of his own labored breathing was the only thing he had.

He begged his betraying body to quiet, to conserve what oxygen it had left but his legs didn't get the message. The sudden, panicked kicking tilted the slide. The new angle revealed the noose was fetched up on a jagged piece of slide that splintered when the lower half fell. If John could bend his knee, he could take a chance and force his back against the slide and try to leap upward just enough to get the loop of rope off the jagged edge of plastic. But he'd need his arms to do it and if his foot couldn't find the screw again should he fail … he'd hang.

Vaguely in the distance the air filled with sirens. They were too late. Maybe if he wasn't a paramedic he could convince himself that he could wait. He felt like he was breathing through a straw in the bottom of a cup that still had dregs of liquid in it.

XXXX

Mike saw John's shadowy posture change. He and Roy exchanged worried glances as the snorkel truck finally arrived.

"John, they're here, we're comin' for you!" Mike called as Roy descended the ladder two rungs at a time.

John heard Mike's voice as it carried on talking in the soothing calm tones they'd all been taught. He closed his eyes for all the difference it made. The noises below indicated what he already knew. The feet of the great snorkel truck weren't even down yet. Taking in as much air as he could, he slipped his wrist from around his neck, feeling the rope immediately tauten. A silent scream later he pushed his heel hard down on the screw, propelling his thin frame upward. He caught the jagged edge of plastic and it caught him, impaling his palms. His lungs screamed for air. He gave one last pull upward and the rope loosened around his neck. Air trickled in past his damaged throat and opened a ribbon of vision and lessened the shaking in his body enough for him to get his entire arm through the opening and slip the rope down his body.

"G-guys!" Gage choked before his grip failed and he fell. The screw clanked down the slide, kicked loose by the momentum of his leap. Marco, Mike and Chet braced themselves, as the rope snaked through their gloved hands.

It took seconds to fall, the impact of hitting their victim and knocking him from his valiant hold, forcing what little air John managed to get on the way down out of his lungs through the minute opening in his trachea.

Mike, Chet and Marco lurched forward despite the rope being tied off. The men's hearts were in their throats as both victims poured from the slide, bodies jerking to a sudden stop as the rope pulled taut. Two victims dangled, a mass of arms and legs spinning with sickening speed. The lower tubing teetered, dragging the victim's legs sideways before letting go and smacking into the basket on the long arm of truck sixteen as the men in it ducked for cover. The bottom half of the huge tube snapped and rolled off the basket and thudded to the ground, sending up a spray of water.

The gears of the ladder arm creaked and groaned as they always did.

"I don't think we're damaged," sixteen's engineer called out. He experimentally lowered the arm a bit and gave thumbs up to continue the rescue.

Roy stared at the spinning victims, a tangle of blue and beige with the back of Brian's white shirt flashing the red cross each time it spun.

Mike, Marco and Chet hung on resolutely, fear etched in each clamped jaw. Had they just hanged their friend?

A/N Thank you so much for the thoughtful reviews, they are very appreciated. Real life slaps us all the head sometimes and life goes on fast forward without your permission but that's why fanfiction is a gift, to temporarily take a break. Thanks so much for the stories you post or for reading mine.


	3. Chapter 3

The yoyo momentum of the rope with its two dangling victims finally ceased. Brian tried to orient himself. Below was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard, machinery creaking and groaning, voices shouting ever closer.

"You did it man. We're getting down from here. Look, they're comin' for us," Brian rasped.

There was no response.

"Dude? Um, your friends are nearly here. Hey man, don't quit talkin' to me now…"

Brian could barely lift his arms after holding on for dear life for so long. He managed to reach up and tilt John's face toward him. He cried out at the grey blue tinge to the lips on the thin face before him.

Brain started talking to himself, his memory of basic life guarding techniques almost failing him when he needed them the most. His hand snaked out to find respirations but there were none. His abused fingers could barely form a seal of John's nose as he tried artificial respiration in the near impossible position. As for a pulse, who knew? Brian's hands were shredded beyond fine dexterity.

With each breath Brian gave to his rescuer, he grew dizzier but it wasn't like blowing up balloons for a party. He knew if he stopped, Gage would die. Blood pooled in his hand cupped behind John's head making it near impossible to keep him from swinging away. The dark hair became slick with Brian's blood. Brian took a second to swipe some blood from his hand before reapplying it to John's nose. He mumbled a dazed apology for the bright red streaks now emblazoned across John's blue shirt.

"Come on, man. I held on for you like you told me to once you took some of the weight. You gotta hold on for me now." Brian gave a few more puffs, finding it harder with each breath to get any air into Gage's lungs. Someone touched his back startling him. He'd wanted to cry for himself earlier. Now he wanted to cry for both of them.

XXXX

"It's okay, you can let him go now. Give 'im to me," a soft voice coaxed. "Everything's gonna be fine. You're okay."

"No. It's … not. Not … he's not breathing," Brian gasped, shaking worse than ever.

Roy continued trying to sooth the young man. It was clear he was going into shock from blood loss, adrenaline the only factor in his conscious state as he clung to his rescuer's limp body. Roy reached out, calling up to Mike and Marco.

"Give me some slack! Just a bit." Chet reached up and grabbed hold of Brian while Roy cut the ropes and the two victims were separated.

Roy gulped as he cut a loose coil of rope from his partner's upper torso just under his armpit.

"He's not … breathing," Brian said again.

"It's okay, we got him," the older paramedic told him dropping the wet noose like it was a poisonous snake. "It's okay now." He sounded so sure, his voice never wavering in the lie it was telling. "You just let us look after you now. You're both gonna be fine."

It was all the permission Brian needed to let go as he felt himself fall into hands, how many, he couldn't tell. He didn't care. He was getting down, thanks to some crazy firemen. He blinked a few times as he and his rescuer were strapped to backboards and closed his eyes as they sunk toward the ground.

Roy forced his stomach contents back down. The blue tinged, cold wet skin beneath his fingers pulsed weakly over the carotid but there were no breath sounds. Roy tilted John's head back, his fingers slipping on blood as he pinched the nostrils closed. Roy formed a complete seal but only some of the air he blew so strongly into his partner made it down to his starved lungs. John's cheeks puffed out on the next attempt.

Roy ripped the turnout coat open further trying to keep calm as the bruising on his partner's neck revealed the reason for the poor forced air intake.

"John? Johnny, don't do this, you have to breathe for me now," Roy scolded. It was all he could do not to shake his partner in a blind bystander-like panic. He forced himself to calm down and ignore the bloodied handprints on the blue shirt under the turnout. Seconds counted.

The basket scarcely touched the ground before Mike and Marco were down from the platform and Cap handed Roy the O2 and equipment. There was no time to call Rampart.

"He's got a pulse but he's not breathing."

Roy tried artificial respiration again watching for a rise of John's chest that was barely perceptible. He stopped, all the while holding his own breath, one hand on John's abdomen and the other behind his head. A feeble attempt to draw air was perceptible below his hand. John's body shuddered, his eyes opening fixed on Roy's face. Shredded hands found his own neck before Roy could stop him. John clawed at his throat, pitifully shallow wheezes whistling in and out.

"Need an airway, Cap, quick. Mike tilt his head back and hold him for me."

It was a hard compromise for Roy. Staying calm, being a paramedic first but acknowledging that the eyes boring into him, pleading with him belonged to his friend. John continued to shudder and fight Mike's hold.

"I know. I know, Johnny. We're going to make it easier to breathe. I promise. It's gonna be okay," Mike soothed, looking stricken. The struggling of his young friend became weaker and he adjusted his hold accordingly, certain that he'd added bruises to the already abused body. The whistling grew quieter, slower, John's stomach dipping further with each failed attempt to draw air.

Cap ripped open various packages; shiny strips of cellophane flying in the chilly breeze catching the sun that dared bare its nosy gaze as he passed the tubing to Roy. John found Roy's face again before his eyes drifted lazily toward the shiny flying plastic in exhausted fascination, fixated on it for a minute and rolled back into his head.

Roy held John's chin, his right hand guiding the plastic tubing into his mouth. He met resistance in the throat.

Please please please, Roy chanted in his head. "Mike, keep his head back," Roy instructed the very pale engineer. The tube slowly and stubbornly passed the resistance and Roy guided it into place and taped it down attaching the ambu bag to it. He placed his palm on Gage's stomach praying he'd managed to get it right as Cap took over bagging again. John's chest rose and fell with each squeeze. Roy's shoulders sagged in relief. He'd never performed a field tracheotomy and he didn't want to start today. Roy checked his watch. Two minutes with no air. But how long before that? He shook that thought from his mind.

"Cap, where's the other squad?"

"They won't get here for another ten minutes. It's us."

"How's Brian doing?" Roy inquired about Brian over his shoulder, awaiting a response from Rampart and holding onto his professionalism as best he could.

"He's breathing, we're putting pressure on his hands," Chet called back as he and Marco each took one of the kid's hands while one of the guys from sixteen started oxygen per Roy's instructions.

"He's getting shocky though, Roy," Marco said, turning his attention back to Brian and keeping the young man engaged in conversation and conscious.

"Rampart we have two victims of a waterslide collapse and rescue. Victim one is male, Code I, twenty-five years old," Mike repeated from Roy and gave the vitals and injury details to Dr. Brackett as Roy called them out. Mike absently still held tight to one of John's bloodied hands. "Be advised, Rampart the Code I is John Gage," he said as an afterthought in case a type and cross match was needed.

"Ten four fifty-one, can you send us a strip?"

Buttons popped and zinged onto the concrete as Roy tore John's shirt open to attach the leads. The readings were far from perfect but served to confirm John was still fighting with all he had. Based on the readings, IV's were ordered piggybacked with other meds.

Roy took a deep breath, grimacing at the pool of water and blood behind his partner's head on the yellow blanket. His fingers probed the wet, dark hair for a wound, a puzzled expression crossing his features. Glancing across at Brian he remembered the teen's bloodied hands holding onto John's head. The blood wasn't John's.

Roy hated to leave Johnny's side but time was too short for both victims. He started the ordered IV on Brian and drew blood for a type and cross match. Noting the odd angle of Brian's right shoulder Roy probed the muscle groups there causing Brian's eyes to fly open with pain.

"Ou-ouch!" Brian screamed, his back arching.

Roy kept his hand on Brian's abdomen while relaying his findings to Rampart.

"Okay, Brian, we're gonna give you something for the pain, just hold tight. Try to be still, okay?"

Brian could only nod, eyes squeezed shut. Within a few seconds the shot of morphine started doing its job.

"How's he doing?" Brian asked in a slow drawl as his body posture changed to that of a limp noodle. "'Cause I'm fi-ine."

Roy couldn't find his voice. He'd been asked this question a lot from victim's families or friends and the diplomatic and safe answer at times like this was always a vague, _we're doing everything we can, _or_ we'll have him to the hospital real soon. _

"He's gonna be okay," Chet spoke up from his stooped position before leaning over to inform Roy of the new vitals on Brian which were far from the young man's declaration of _fi-ine._

Chet took over John's respirator as he and Roy climbed into the ambulance. Mike and Marco loaded Brian into the same cramped ambulance and with a double slap from Mike they sped off.

Roy checked his partner's cervical collar again, peering through the emergency procedure hole in it at the Adams apple. The bruising and swelling was worse but the airway was secure and so far, working. The dark blue line around John's lips was fading but his skin remained grey.

"Is he gonna … you know …" Brian asked groggily turning his head toward John.

"He's holding steady. You were really somethin' up there," Roy praised the scared teen, securing his head better to the board since he wasn't supposed to be able to move it in the first place.

"Did I … hang 'im?" Brian shuddered, voicing what every man on A shift wondered of themselves.

"No … no, you didn't. It was an accident. And it's gonna be okay. We're nearly at the hospital and I need you to calm down and think about yourself right now. You need to save your strength, okay?"

"I tried … to save … him back. I got a little air into 'im but that's it. Honest, I tried so hard…"

"You're sure some air reached him?" Roy asked eagerly both for information and to keep the teen talking.

"Y … yeah, at first. He got a few good breaths from me sometime before you got … there. Didn't think m-my first rescue would be like … that," Brian shuddered until the morphine found him again. "I kinda thought it would be like the movies … pretty girl, you know, carry-carryin' her outta the water and then…"

And it hurt Roy that the young man was so very like his partner; head full of fantasy but fast acting and reliable to the edge of life when needed. Hope flared in Roy. Maybe John wasn't without air as long as he'd feared.

"Okay. That's real good. We're here. Listen, just try to relax and let the docs look out for you. They're the best here. You're in good hands," Roy said, squeezing Brian's good shoulder and letting the orderlies take him for treatment.

Roy handed John's IV to one of the orderlies as Chet continued squeezing the ambu bag and they sped off to treatment room three as Brackett started firing off orders for C-spine X-rays. As soon as John was transferred to the examination table and placed on a ventilator, Dixie cut off the rest of his wet clothing and placed warming blankets on him.

"Doc, there's no head trauma," Roy said. "The blood on his head is from our victim. But uh, he hanged, we don't think by his full weight but …" Roy pointed to the prominent bruising around John's adam's apple and neck.

"The X-rays will tell the tale but so far, I don't think his neck's broken, Roy. His reflexes are good in his lower extremities," Brackett replied, ushering out the reluctant senior paramedic and Chet. Chet stood before the door looking as though he was using x-ray vision to see through to his friend.

The door opened and the X-ray machine was wheeled out.

"I need a rush on those, Malcolm," Brackett ordered pushing the door to the exam room back open for everyone to go back inside.

The quiet waiting was always the worst. Too much time to think.

Roy gently took John's hand, turning the slightly curled, relaxed fingers around. There across the palm of his left hand were the tell tale indentations of John's struggle to survive, his hand shoved against his neck to keep from strangling. The shadowy death scene from Roy's view from the outside of the slide came to full color life and he felt suddenly sick.

"I'm so sorry, John. There wasn't anything we could do. Mike and the guys … we just … the rope … if we cut it, you'd fall, if we pulled it … well …"

Chet's hands flew to his face, rubbing harshly as he fought for control. This was never supposed to happen.

Dixie tried half heartedly to get Roy and Chet to go for coffee. She busied herself gently cleaning the slight scratches on John's face and towelling off as much blood and water as she could from his dark hair.

The X-rays arrived and Brackett snapped them into place just as Dr. Early arrived with Dr. Morton.

"Brian's on his way for surgery on his right hand, some tendon repairs. He's responding well to the blood transfusion, pressure's coming up nicely and he's stable. How's _our _boy doing?"

That one statement grabbed Roy. _Our boy… _How many times had they called him that, all of them? Flashes of Dix reminding John that he was family came to him along with at least part of an answer for John's outright animosity over writing what he called _the black letters._ John had no family … outside of he and the guys and some friends.

"God, Junior, what were you thinking … or not thinking I should say?" Roy smiled past the conflicts of the day. "Anyway it's a good thing you can't talk right now 'cause I'm pissed at you. You think you have no one to write letters to? What about my kids? What about Jo? And all those chances you take out in the field? We're gonna have a long talk about this when you wake up."

Roy turned from the people clustered around the X-rays. He placed his hand on John's chest, feeling the mechanical rise and fall, but underneath that, the heart John wore just under the fancy patch on his sleeve beat all on its own.

"Neck looks good. Trachea's pretty swollen but not crushed. He's got a slight concussion probably from the force of tumbling around in that slide. Over all from the description of the accident I think he was pretty lucky," Brackett said. Once we get him off the vent we'll examine his throat more carefully. There's no tendon damage in his hands, a few stitches ought to close the tears and we'll get him up to ICU for the night as a precaution."

That was Dixie's cue to get John's very protective brothers to go take care of themselves. Placing her hands on her hips she reminded them that they too were wet and threatened to cut their clothing off as she shooed them out each with a fresh set of scrubs in their arms.

Chet, who would have in other circumstances jumped onto an examination table inviting the pretty, blonde nurse to cut his uniform off, took the scrubs meekly and marched out with everyone else.

"I'll come get you in the lounge once he's settled, deal?" Dixie asked, but really, it wasn't a question and the reminder that they were wet, now that the adrenaline was wearing off caused some shivers. Coffee sounded good about now.

Cap dared the tones to go off as he paced. They didn't. The cold weather made a coffee break and short vigil possible.

XXXX

Roy reluctantly returned to shift until two replacements could be found and later that evening sat quietly beside John's bed in the ICU. The click-whoosh of the ventilator matched the rise and fall of his partner's chest reassuringly but so not right. The beeping of the monitors lulled him into an unintended nap, his book splayed open between the rails of the bed in his slack hand. His hand was squeezed slightly and he smiled, forgetting for a second where he was until the hardness of the plastic chair reminded him he wasn't in his bed and that was not Joanne's hand tangled in sheets, it was John's hand in bandages. He cracked his eyes open slowly, afraid that he'd find out the squeeze was a mere spasm and not his friend waking up.

Brown, sleepy eyes met blue ones and Johnny shook his head at his friend in that I-can't-believe-this sort of way. Roy could only stare for a second before finding his voice and catching his book just before it fell to the floor.

"Don't you ever do this to me again," Roy whispered. It's not what he'd intended to say at all but it spilled.

For his part, John shrugged his shoulders, wincing a bit and accompanying that motion with an eye roll that clearly said; _well, what else was I supposed to do? _Which did little to wipe that look off his partner's face. This was one of the pluses and minuses of working together for so long. They didn't need words, a head tilt, a certain squint; an eye roll here or there said it all. But this time there was something else on Roy's face. Fear.

And the silent conversation continued.

John scrunched up his forehead and lifted his chin a bit; _You okay, Roy?_

Roy crossed his arms, his eyes open wide; _Why are you asking me that? I'm not the one in the bed who almost died._

And all the while, the nurse ignored their insane silent language, good thing too, 'cause the next thing out of Gage's mouth … er, weird mind speech was, _She's pretty hot. I think I'll ask her out. _

Roy glanced downward shrugging apologetically as he tapped his ring finger and then glanced at the nurse. _Wedding ring, Junior, sorry._

To which John answered with something that made Roy say; "Watch your mouth, someday you will." Only he said that out loud, causing the nurse to turn around and look quizzically at him while John smiled past the ventilator, which in truth was a little disconcerting.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" the nurse asked.

John innocently gazed at his friend, eyebrow cocked; _Yeah, Roy, tell her what you said, go on, explain._

In an act of pure unprecedented communication talent, Roy lied through his teeth out loud; "Oh, uh, yeah, what I said was um, that I think that vent's ready to come of his mouth…" He felt so lame … he was a paramedic after all but he had to have something that would rhyme vaguely with mouth while at the same time convincing the nurse that he hadn't just told her to watch _her_ mouth. Out of the corner of his eye however came; _I was right about you, you're the only one who could lie there on a vent and still frustrate the crap out of someone!_

John's brown eyes blinked sleepily again; mission accomplished. The fear he'd seen only moments ago on his friend's face was gone, replaced by something that didn't scare him so much. _I'm okay, Roy. Honest. _Then the eyes closed, the breathing evened out and he triggered the vent strongly.

A/N Yep, this is taking time to get to delving into what we're going to do about Marcus Parkham but it's coming. A story needs to be told. The story is completed, I'm editing but real life chomps on us all at one point or another and it's so much my turn right now it seems. Many of the E writers have been at it for song, I've read A/N's where they've lost people close to them etc and couldn't write for awhile; it's funny but awful how time flies and I guess things change over the years. My parents are older now, mom was just in the hospital for over a week and believe me, the care is nothing like our fine fantasy escape of E! The care was mishandled through miscommunication between doctors etc and we have it all straightened out now but it was very stressful. I hate not posting regularly, it seems sloppy but real life waits for no one. I will be able to post regularly now that we have everything worked out. I dislike sharing what some would see as an excuse but it was a real smack to realize that I've been writing fanfiction for over ten years and in that time, yeah, life and death and sickness and yeah, taxes (LOL!) happens and hobbies have to stand aside while you deal.


	4. Chapter 4

When John woke next, he wasn't in the haze of the aftermath of anaesthetic and painkillers. The ventilator was gone. He felt like he swallowed gravel, mined by diamond- tipped drills with razors embedded in it, which is what he would have said if he could talk.

He turned his head and then shook it, smiling slightly through the pain. Roy was still there. John tapped his friend's hand, which hung over the rail of his bed like a call button. He saw and felt his bandaged hands for the first time. He made the mistake of swallowing hard and retracted his hand from waking his friend.

_Oh God, I wonder how bad… _Grimacing, he concentrated and flexed his fingers beneath the bandages. His breathing sped up from the pain and accelerated the monitors.

Roy stood up from a dead sleep, instantly regretting the dizziness it caused and sinking back into the chair. Now eye level with his very much awake friend, he realized what had happened.

"You're okay, Johnny. Your hands are gonna be fine, Doc says so."

John's eyes closed in momentary relief, hiding the still slightly enlarged pupils. The hands were everything to the job he loved.

"R … oy," he rasped, grabbing his throat in pain.

Roy gently but firmly took John's hands and held them down to his chest.

"Don't try to talk yet. Doc said you did a number on your vocal chords so you won't be singing while you come around the mountain for awhile and no drivin' six white horses for a bit either while we're on the subject." _Or diving into broken waterslides again. Ever._

John nodded but Roy's hands remained in place until the pain subsided a bit.

The monitors slowed again as the ICU nurse took vitals. She nodded approvingly and went to call Dr. Brackett.

XXXX

Brackett's practiced hands palpated just under John's chin and gently traced down his throat to his collarbones. John withdrew into the pillows harder in reaction to the pain. He took a few ragged breaths and scrunched up his eyes.

"Almost done, sorry. We have to monitor the swelling. Okay, I know this hurts but you have to swallow for me," Brackett instructed, his index finger and thumb on either side of John's burning throat.

John opened his eyes and stared up at the doctor incredulously. Swallowing was hard enough without pressure on his windpipe. He took a deep breath and did as he was told, grimacing again, his head sinking impossibly further into his pillows.

Roy's hand squeezed his partner's shoulder when a gasp of pain escaped him.

"Okay, you did real good. We're done. Roy, can you get him some ice please?" Brackett asked, checking John's oxygen saturation levels.

Sweat stood on John's brow as Roy spooned him some ice and he swiped quickly at some moisture that gathered at the corners of his eyes with his pristine white gauze hands. He worked to control his breathing.

Brackett took his time, waiting for his patient go get some relief and some composure back from the ice. This was the part of the job he hated but as his professors had told him countless times when he'd felt like throwing up back in med school, _sometimes it has to hurt before it will heal. _And it was always harder when the patient was a friend.

"Better?" Roy asked, sounding very much like Brackett felt inside.

John nodded in the affirmative. It was a lie but no one called him on it.

"I just need to get a look down your throat and then I believe it's time for your pain meds."

Brackett gently cupped his patient's chin and poised the light. "Okay, say ahhh."

"Ahhh … ow!" John rasped involuntarily, trying to stop the painful coughing the prompt had caused.

Brackett's jaw twitched, never a good sign, and accompanied by the famous sigh and slight headshake almost always meant bad news. He spoke to the nurse who returned with an inhaler as Roy slipped in behind his friend to support his back as he sat up.

John wheezed in the medicine from the mask Brackett held to his face until he slumped back exhausted and panting.

"I'm going to order a humidity tent for the night. You have some swelling of the vocal chords and soft tissues. It's imperative that you don't speak and we have to get that coughing under control. We don't want to build scar tissue."

XXXX

Tired eyes stared miserably out of the plastic tent that encased John's torso.

"Don't worry, I'll tell Chet no _boy in the plastic bubble_ jokes. Now just try to relax and let the meds work, okay?" Roy coached tiredly. John opened his mouth to reply but was glared into silence.

"You're not supposed to talk. And you know that Brackett said whispering actually puts more strain on the vocal chords than talking so none of that either."

_A nod and a shrug with a slight head bob cocked to the left_ a little.

"How long in the tent?"

_A nod in the affirmative, brow raised in query._

"About a day. Brackett says the moisture will help with the coughing and the inhaled meds will help reduce swelling."

John's face took on a resigned look until Joanne arrived. She kissed Roy and sat on the arm of his chair, slipping her hand under the tent to gently touch John's bandaged hands.

"They told me you were awake and hitting on nurses already," Joanne said fondly.

John blushed. The coloring in his cheeks lasted only seconds but it was so good to see something to chase away the pallor even fleetingly.

Jo had a knack for calming the young paramedic. She easily carried on a one-sided conversation and though not nearly as adept as Roy in deciphering his gestures soon persuaded him to go to sleep.

"Wow, you made him sleep. They gave him some meds awhile ago that should have knocked him for a loop," Roy said quietly as he gently tucked in blankets around his friend.

"Are you calling me boring, Mr. Desoto?"

"I'm calling you a sight for sore eyes. How did you manage to get away?"

"Mrs. Clark will look after Jen and Chris for a few hours and I figured you needed some home cooking."

Roy forced himself to eat a bit. Joanne coaxed him to go home for a little while and get some sleep. She endured twenty instructions with a patient smile she usually reserved for her children.

"Call the nurse if …"

"He's in the ICU. The nurse is right there," Joanne reminded him as she pointed to a booth right outside the door from which several nurses monitored patients.

"Right … Okay then I'll just…"

"Roy, I talked to Mike's wife on the phone. Surely you're not feeling the same way he and the guys are all feeling? How would John feel if he knew you guys were blaming yourselves for what happened? It was an accident and as much as I hate to admit, part of the risks of your job."

"I know … it was just so hard. The guys … they were holding the rope. They could feel everything and there was nothing they could do about it. There was nothing _I_ could do…"

"Exactly."

Roy did his best to believe his wife's logic. It had never failed him before. Bone deep weariness set in and with one last look and ten more instructions that earned him an eye roll from his wife, he finally left.

Joanne smoothed the blankets around their friend unnecessarily. She took her knitting from her bag and the clacking of the needles melded with the monitors for a few hours. She looked up often, studying John's face, remembering the first time she truly got to know what was in her husband's partner's heart and that she could trust him to see him home.

At first, she was annoyed; how dare her husband speak about private matters between them with his partner? She flung the leftover spaghetti noodles into the trash, angry about how limp they truly were. And then the phone rang.

"… Yes, John, thanks for calling. I'll be sure to drain the fresh-not-dried noodles when they're aldente like your engineer does," she said sweetly seething. "And dice the green peppers smaller so they're there but not really there … M'hm, and simmer it all uncovered."

The next few calls from John were much the same but some were queries as to how to impress a woman on certain dates; not that he ever took the advice. And then came the call that would change things forever."Listen, Jo, I never took the money from our victim but the cops are questioning me harder than Roy. I might as well just confess and save Roy from being sacked with me. It'll be easy for them to believe it was me. It's – expected."

Deep brown eyes opened and looked up into her tear filled ones. John's bandaged hand came up automatically to wipe her tears away but stopped at the plastic barrier.

"You're awake," Jo said with much surprise in her voice and a sense that somehow, John Gage knew exactly what she'd been thinking about. She quickly changed course to a new topic, a happy one.

"Well, you always did love camping, so I see they had to give you your own tent here." Jo reached her hand under the folds of plastic to gently touch John's hand. "When you get out of here I think we should take a family camping trip. Chris and Jen send their love and school's out in two days. They've already made sure Roy unpacked the gear from the attic."

For as long as John had known Joanne and Roy he still couldn't quite figure out why the word family included him. The tears in Joanne's eyes weren't foreign to him but the fact that they were for him was. It was both a blessing and an awesome responsibility. He would repay this inclusion with his life if necessary and he'd proven it time after time. He could only look at her. Even opening his mouth hurt and he didn't want to risk another coughing attack.

Dr. Early peeked in.

"I see you finally convinced Roy to go get some sleep," he said kindly.

"It was a hard sell. I told Roy if he got sick too I'd have to call my mother to come stay with us so I could look after Johnny and him."

Dr. Early felt the internal tap dance begin in the pit of his stomach. Joanne's mother was legendarily nasty but it wouldn't do to agree with that out loud in any case.

"They don't get along?" Early asked innocently.

Jo laughed softly looking down at Johnny who was gesturing to Early with his bright white hands as if he was guiding a flaming plane to safety on a runway.

"Easy air traffic control, the broomstick's not going to land any time soon," Joanne told the young paramedic good-naturedly. Turning to Dr. Early she said. "Yes, I know my mom can be a bit of a handful. Roy ran away from home when she came to 'help' when he fell down that ladder when you two got hurt when a room flashed. He came and stayed with you for the remainder of mother's visit. What was it … two or three days?"

John managed to separate two fingers from the bulky gauze. The air outside the tent as Early lifted it to listen to John's chest felt good, lighter without the forced humidity. He tensed at the touch of the cold stethoscope on his bare chest. Early reminded him to breathe.

"Deep breaths, Johnny. Sounds good so far. I think you lucked out this time. The water you took in was clean and I don't hear any more rattling. I think we can free you from your bubble," Early said, tapping the clear, plastic tent. "In the morning if there's no additional swelling of your airway, I think we can move you from the ICU. No talking or whispering though. That's a must. You need to give the soft tissues time to heal."

John nodded, an unspoken query on his face.

"Yes, we think your throat will heal. You won't be singing opera any time soon but if you take it easy and rest your voice for two weeks it should come back just fine. You'll be a little raspy at first but that'll go away eventually."

"And the nurses will find it sexy, movie star good looks with the voice to match." Joanne pointed out.

A blush crept up John's pale features. He grinned shyly. The smile was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain however and Early asked the nurse to bring some ice chips.

"I'm off at seven. Kel will be up to check on you then." With a pat to John's knees, Early took his leave.

John fell asleep dreaming of being in a plastic bubble, anthropologists and scientists gathered around muttering and taking notes, their breath fogging the plastic obscuring them from view, but he knew they were still there. They would always be there.

XXXX

Roy returned to Rampart after a night of dreams of his friend hanging, falling out of the end of the slide with the rope taut around his neck. It was almost seven o'clock. He avoided the crowded elevators for the stairs. He paused at the door of John's room. Jo's knitting needles clacked away quietly and the scarf she started last night would stretch across the room if it weren't tucked up in neat piles on Johnny's bedside table. Roy smiled at the sight as she looked up and took stock of the young man in bed before noticing his silhouette in the doorway. Jo looked at Roy, then back to Johnny and then to the huge scarf.

"Guess I got carried away," she whispered sheepishly.

"It's okay, I know you're addicted," he teased, trying to force the terrible images from the nightmare out of his mind.

"Roy Desoto, I'm not addicted to knitting," she scolded in a friendly tone watching Roy lose his fight to be casual about his need to see his friend. Roy's hand patted John's, pausing just long enough for him to glance at his watch as the pat stilled on his pulse point.

"He's been stable through the night," Jo told him, watching his lips move silently as he counted the precious heartbeats. "And I told you I would call you."

Her words carried no animosity, only worry. The sun rose just a little higher, the pinkish orange casting very little blush onto Roy's pale features.

"Wanna tell me about it?" Jo asked.

"Bad dream. That's all …"

Joanne sighed.

"Are you still trying to figure out a way that this was your fault?"

"No … It's just that there was nothing I could do. He was just hanging there. One more minute Jo and …"

Joanne stood up and put her arms around Roy's neck. He was head and shoulders taller than her but he seemed to melt down until his head was on her shoulder. He'd kept it together while treating his best friend, got him to the hospital alive. He made happy face pancakes that morning for Chris and Jen, greeted his neighbour with the good news that Johnny was holding his own. But the dream undid him.

Joanne rubbed small circles on Roy's back. The tension in his shoulders told the tale even though she couldn't see his face. Roy's breathing was very deliberate, very in control, in through the nose, out through the mouth and she knew his eyes were squinted shut. He wouldn't cry. The breath was held for a moment and released ever slower as Roy straightened. He cleared his throat and she didn't pursue an explanation. She knew.

"Oh! Almost forgot. Here." Roy handed her a travel mug of cinnamon vanilla coffee. "Thanks Jo. For everything."

"He's going to be okay, Roy. I told him he had to be," she said, shrugging her shoulders as if that was the end of it. She kissed him and gathered up seemingly miles of alternating colours of brown and cream yarn. "But you'll call me … you know if anything…"

"Promise," Roy vowed taking up her spot minus the miles of knitting.

Jo slipped from the room, nodding at the two nurses changing shifts. Looking back she knew what she would find. Roy stood back up and studied John's peaceful features once more before really settling into the chair at his bedside.

XXXX

"Oh hey, Roy. You just get here? Joe told me Joanne was here."

"Yeah, about ten minutes ago."

Brackett took the chart from the end of the bed. The edge of the metal was warm. He knew Roy had just read it and put it back.

"…So, how's our boy doing?" the doctor smirked knowingly.

Roy looked at his own shoes and rattled off the latest vitals in only a slightly guilty manner.

"Actually I'm glad you're here. I need to check him out and I don't want him startled awake in strange surroundings. It's imperative we keep him quiet."

Roy instinctively moved to the head of the bed and leaned over his friend.

"Johnny? Dr. Brackett's gonna have a look at you. Everything's okay, remember?"

Roy waited for the brown eyes to open and focus. It would be easy for John to forget not to try to speak when waking in strange surroundings, especially if someone was touching him before he was fully aware. And sure enough, John's mouth opened.

"Sh-sh, remember, no talking okay? Everything's okay," Roy soothed.

John's mouth closed and with the soft collar on now he could turn his head slightly. He nodded his understanding to Roy and Brackett, looking like he'd fall back to sleep at any moment.

"He's really groggy," Roy said, voice tinged with concern.

"It's normal, Roy. He's coming down from all the meds we had to force into his system over the past day and a half, steroids, epinephrine. He's bound to be a little less alert today. He really just needs to sleep and heal, but that means we really need to watch him, particularly when he wakes that he doesn't try to speak. I'm inclined to keep in the ICU for one more day."

While this wasn't necessarily good news, Roy took it as such. It just made sense.

Johnny sleepily submitted to the poking and prodding, forcing himself to pay attention when Brackett looked at his throat. The young paramedic watched the famous Brackett frowny face appear and listened for the inevitable accompanying sigh.

"Well, we still have some minor bleeding, John," Brackett told the young paramedic, but that should clear up in a day or two. I'm still concerned about scar tissue but the anti inflammatory drugs are starting to work."

John nodded and looked hopefully toward the cup of ice perched on his bedside table. Brackett looked at his watch and John's eyes widened as the doctor sat down on the edge of his bed and spooned him an ice chip himself. Johnny shifted in the bed, his eyes closing as the movement lessened the stress on his back.

It was good to see the paramedic move; a still John Gage was never a good thing.

"Roy, I think we can let him sit up a little more," Brackett said and Roy moved to the end of the bed cranking it slowly to a semi-seated position. John smiled slightly and crunched the ice with his teeth, which earned him a glare from both doctor and senior paramedic.

"Slowly, John," Brackett reminded.

Within minutes, John was asleep, chin supported by the soft collar. His breathing seemed easier in his new position and Roy sighed audibly.

Brackett patted Roy on the back. "We have to stay on top the swelling but I really think he's out of the woods."

"That's great!" came Chet's entirely-too-loud-for-the-ICU exclamation.

"Sh!" came the angry retort from three nearby sources.

"I'm sorry," Chet whispered. I was just so … Sorry. He's really gonna be okay?"

"We think so, Chet," Roy whispered, astonished that Johnny hadn't woken up and that Chet had made it past the one visitor rule.

They almost forgave Chet for his happy outburst upon seeing the evident relief in his moustached face. "I really thought … and then with the way he was acting yesterday morning over those damned letters … you know, that it was a jinx … and to top it off he hadn't written anything and if he had … I can't even say it."

"I know, Chet. I know," Roy said sympathetically. "I was gonna call you guys after Dr. Brackett was finished here."

"No need, Mike, Marco and Cap are all in reception. They wanted to stop by on their way home to check on you and Johnny."

"Roy, let's say we leave our friend in capable hands and head downstairs for a quick cup of coffee?" Brackett said.

Most people would have laughed at the very thought of Chet being the capable hands to which Brackett referred, but those were people who failed to see the intricate workings of the Phantom/Pigeon relationship.

"Watch him close, Kelly. If he starts to stir, make sure he wakes knowing where he is and what's going on. Don't let him talk. It's imperative, got me?" Roy asked. "Dr. Brackett said it's good if he wakes to a familiar face, someone who can remind him not to speak."

"I got it," Chet said solemnly. Each man at fifty one knew how well John woke to the sound of the klaxons calling him out to duty, but they also knew his sleep could be thrown off by the least disturbance and that he was prone to the occasional nightmare or bout of insomnia.

"I know you do," Roy said, remembering that Chet had never poked fun of John's nightmares, sleep deprivation yes, but serious things, no.

Chet took the seat next to John's bed while Roy and Brackett made their way downstairs to talk with the crew.

XXXX

"I wasn't notified of any new program of this nature," Brackett said in fascination as he perused the glossy brochure Marco handed him as they sat discussing Johnny's prognosis in the cafeteria.

"What do you think, doc?" Mike asked, leaning forward on his elbows looking wearily at the stuff that passed for coffee at Rampart.

"I think I might be the wrong person to ask. I mean, you guys perform very dangerous jobs but from where I stand a person can slip on a banana peel and die and a person can fall from a three-story balcony and live. I'm not sure any letter written in case could ever explain an accidental death to the satisfaction of the family. I think perhaps a diary or a journal written purposely to be read by others and kept as a memoir would be better. Certainly personal information could be thrown in but I think the spirit of this initiative might be just a tad off. A journal could be updated, there's more time for thought, not just a quickly scrawled macabre note, if you're reading this I'm dead… I mean, talk about pressure."

Brackett looked up at the astonished faces.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I guess I had a huge opinion on this…"

"Don't be sorry, Doc," Captain Stanley said. "You've stated in a nutshell what we were trying to figure out was wrong with this whole thing all day. I'm not too proud to tell you that it unnerved us frankly, especially John."

"Yeah, Roy told me John was really upset about it. What do you intend to do about the program?"

"Well, it's of course voluntary and I won't discourage anyone from participating but I think we're going to take your advice and take things slow. I mean, the program did point out some things that we should think about in this profession but it wasn't well planned or thought out. I'd still like to find out why it affected John so deeply though …" Cap said tiredly.

"He never told me before he … and now he's not allowed to speak for two weeks," Roy sighed. It's a good thing I'm a fireman, John's gonna spontaneously combust not being able to communicate for two whole weeks. And even if he could, now's not the time to ask him.

XXXX

Chet spent the first five minutes of his visit watching the natural rise and fall of his friend's chest. After manually pumping air into the paramedic's non-moving lungs for almost ten minutes at the water park it was a beautiful thing to behold.

"You know, yesterday, when you were givin' Cap a hard time I was gonna jump in with both feet and help you dig yourself in deeper but as it turned out, you brought your own shovel and it was your own personal sandbox. I don't know what's going on, man, but I hope you remember, the Phantom knows when to let the drawbridge down so you don't drown in the moat … Gawd, now I'm getting poetic. Look, just get better so I can go back to picking on you, okay? I mean, look, the guys and I put out a small fire in a garage an hour or so ago and I haven't even had time to shower yet. There are pretty nurses downstairs and I can't even ask 'em out because I smell of smoke still.

John shifted suddenly and Chet was ashamed of himself for startling from that. He'd been staring so intently at his friend that the sudden movement just seemed unnatural. Chet got himself together and leaned in a little closer, ready to soothe his friend gently into wakefulness. Chet tried talking in soothing tones, losing heart as John's eyes starting roving rapidly beneath their heavy lids.

XXXX

The distinct smell of smoke from Chet's coat pulled John toward fitful wakefulness. His heavy eyelids warred with the medications and physical exhaustion and lost their struggle to open.

But there's smoke … I should … I should wake up … I should…

Angry tears dried quickly against his tanned skin pulling and itching uncomfortably. New ones followed the well worn path down the twelve year old's cheeks. Only now there was no one to wipe them away or to tell him it was going to be okay.

The skeleton of the barn stood stark against a glowing yellow wheat field. The full moon hung low, coaxing the tides of the world to cry with the boy crouched below. The barn boards were ash, blown away in the wind but the barn would rise again on the huge beams and stone foundation that had survived that which human flesh could not. The roughly hewn timbers stood proud, scarred and blackened but ready to bear another century, a new beginning. The same could not be said for John who stood, hands still bandaged raging against the barn's structure for its mockery. The round windowpane near the triangular roof bared teeth of broken glass, staring out from its empty socket in judgement. You didn't save her.

Marcus Parkham stepped out of the shadows.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, blowing out a ring of smoke.

John leapt on the man, punching every part of him he could reach. Blisters beneath his bandages burst and oozed but he didn't feel them. Not yet. He just wanted to hurt Marcus Parkham as much as he hurt right now.

John was no match for Parkham who was of course much larger than the slight child. John got in a few good hits before being grabbed by his longish dark hair and practically dangled off the ground.

"I was right, you are nothing but a little savage," Parkham said with some satisfaction. "A perfect study."

John was tossed mercilessly aside and Marcus Parkham massaged his considerable stomach a moment before turning on his heel and walking away, flicking his cigar nub at John over his shoulder without so much as looking back,

John got up valiantly, leapt onto Parkham's back but was easily flung off. Parkham's fist shot out, softening into an open palm at the last possible second but not losing any of its velocity and cracking against the already weakened child's face. Stars swam before his eyes as he went down, small fists finding only air to retaliate upon.

"Johnny, hey man, easy, everything's alright. Everything's okay. You're at Rampart and you're safe. Come on, open your eyes."

The nurse entered the room hearing Chet's pleas and watching John begin to thrash around. The young paramedic's hands were balled into fists and he struggled against Chet's restraining hands to punch anything he could reach. The nurse paged Dr. Brackett and helped Chet keep Johnny from hurting himself but short of practically holding a hand over John's mouth, no one could stop what happened next.

"Parkham … nononono … killed her…" John moaned in whisper-quiet screams that what they lacked in volume made up for in an all compelling need to make them stop.

"God, Johnny, please stop. Wake up. You're safe. You're at Rampart and you're here with me, Chet. Roy's on his way back up and all the guys are here."

The body in the bed stilled, head cocked to one side as if struggling for the truth. The heart monitor trilled shrilly as bleary dark eyes opened to the sight of his friend.

"Chet?" John rasped, forgetting entirely that he'd promised not to speak, forgetting the pain that would follow. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he tasted salt as they fell over his nose. Confusion enveloped him. The smoke lingered. His eyes fell upon Chet's uniform shirt.

Oh …Oh God! John's chest heaved despite the pain and effort it took. A haze of confusion and humiliation shrouded him.

Chet trusted that John was awake, his hold on his friend's hands gentling to comfort rather than restrain, his other hand placed on John's chest. The nurse mercifully quieted the monitor but didn't take her eyes off it as she recorded the peak number and set about getting a new set of vitals.

Chet tried to get Johnny to look at him but the downcast eyes spoke of something that made the linesman wholly uncomfortable, like he himself had been a part of something awful that took place on the other side of wakefulness.

Dr. Brackett tried to motion for the guys to wait in the reception area. Cap managed to get Mike and Marco to wait but Roy passed Brackett in the hall. Roy's first instinct was to demand of Chet what he'd done but he knew that was unfair. Still, when he'd left, John understood not to speak and seemed to be stabilizing. Brackett's page had indicated that his patient had woken disoriented and spoke.

Chet looked stricken.

"I'm sorry, Roy. I couldn't stop him. I tried. I spoke to him just the way you told me to but he was in too deep … It must have been awful whatever it was, he was shaking and crying and muttering … names and … I'm just so sorry, Roy. I tried."

Roy clapped Chet on the back as Brackett and the nurse stooped over the now passed out paramedic.

"It's not your fault, Chet. We all know he has the occasional nightmares, just he hides them better when he's not sick or he sleeps in the dayroom when he's really troubled. This rescue isn't like the others that gave him nightmares though … he usually only gets those after a really bad one."

"He … well, he wasn't dreaming about this rescue. It must have been another one. It was so quiet I barely made out any of it but … did you guys recently respond to a murder?"

Roy searched his memory as he stared at the steadily evening out numbers of the heart monitor. He and John had responded to a lot of crime victims but none of them had died, at least not while under their direct care.

"No … why?"

Chet got shivers up his back. "Well, it was real low and weak but he said something about someone being murdered. He said her, so I'm assuming it was a woman. He said Parkham killed her, at least that's what it sounded like. Poor kid's probably watched too much Adam-12 again or something … right?"

Roy wanted to agree about too much T.V. but something stopped him from grabbing that quick comfort. John was deeply troubled about something before he'd been injured.

Brackett straightened up after looking at John's throat.

"I didn't think this would work. It's just instinct to talk when you wake up, especially if you wake up in the middle of a nightmare in a strange place. If this continues, he's going to end up needing surgery on his vocal chords to remove scar tissue."

Brackett wracked his brain for a solution. He could potentially put in an oral airway and sedate his patient for a couple of days but that wouldn't be good in the long run.

"When I was in the army, we sometimes had to put in oral mouth guards to keep the injured guys from grinding their teeth in pain. It had the side effect of keeping them from screaming much from nightmares too until we could calm them…" Roy shuddered at the memory, hating himself for suggesting they basically gag his partner.

"That's not a bad idea, Roy," said Brackett enthusiastically. "Carol, please call the dental lab and have someone sent up."

XXXX

Chet sat in a corner, watching as the dental specialist manipulated his young friend's jaw forward just a bit, fitting gum-like material around his upper and lower teeth.

"This will actually help his breathing too, Kel. We make these for people with sleep apnoea and a different style for athletes and teeth grinders. I've never made one specifically for this purpose, though," Dr. Hedge said, looking down in sympathy at his patient. "I'm in new territory here; you're going to have to let me know how this works in this application. When he wakes, it's gonna feel strange in his mouth, he won't know why it's there. Someone will have to help him get it out once he's fully aware with his hands being bandaged. These will be ready in about an hour and I'll come back down for a final fitting. And by the way, good idea."

"Oh, it wasn't my idea. I'd like you to meet John's partner, Roy Desoto. He was in Korea and they used athletic mouth guards as best they could in situations like this."

"Hell of a good idea, son," said Dr. Hedge said sounding very impressed.

Roy just looked at the floor. His partner was not a wounded soldier but something told him he'd suffered as much in life.

XXXX

John slept through the fitting, his jaw jutted slightly forward when it was inserted. He wouldn't be happy about it when he awoke.

"Well, I'd suggest you all go home for some rest but I know that's not going to happen," Brackett said. "John will be well looked after in the ICU but I think it would be a good idea for him to have a familiar face here as much as possible until we sort things out."

Cap, Mike and Marco heard this from the open doorway and couldn't help but surge forward just a bit. Brackett didn't say much, for once; the ICU had only one patient besides the young paramedic.

"Uh, guys, Cap, I gotta split," Chet said suddenly looking very uncomfortable. Something about the way John had glared into his very soul with a mixture of hurt and fear when he was trying to sooth him unnerved the linesman – and in truth hurt. Chet knew he'd antagonized John at times in the past but they were friends, at least until this whole letter writing thing had started when John cooled just a bit toward him.

"Get better, Johnny," Chet whispered, taking his leave quickly before he could be included in the schedule to sit with Johnny that the others eagerly took part in.

Roy fought anger for a minute before he recognized sadness on Chet's face. No one said anything about the man's quick departure. Things had been strained around the station ever since this whole black letter thing started and they all wished things would go back to normal.

Cap was great at scheduling. He knew Roy and Joanne would take the majority of time but deliberately divided things up so they could be together as a family as well until John was well enough to be alone.

Marco, Mike and Cap took a few minutes to sit with John, entirely too many visitors for the ICU so they took their leave with promises to come back for their allotted shifts to care for their friend. John was a grown man, a firefighter but a familiar face couldn't hurt to ensure absolute silence.

Roy sat wearily back into the plastic chair as Dr. Brackett took another set of vitals. The doctor uncharacteristically brushed a long strand of hair away from his patient's forehead.

XXXX

Ideally John was to remain absolutely silent but they had to take what they could get. The soft moans that escaped him as he woke ten hours later would impede a successful recovery but not prevent it.

Once again it wasn't a peaceful return to consciousness and the intrusive mouthpiece caused John's hands to fly to his face to get it out.

"Easy, Johnny. It's just a mouth guard. Give it a minute. Wake up okay? Open your eyes," Roy soothed the shaking young man.

Johnny opened his eyes and his heart monitor slowed. He gagged slightly as Roy helped him spit the contraption out and place it into a jar of cleaning solution beside the bed. The nurse brought a warmed cloth and Roy gently dabbed it over John's chin and face.

John asked a silent why? pointing his bandaged hands toward the offensive object in the glass.

"You don't remember?"

John shook his head in the negative.

"You woke up in a bad way when Chet was here," Roy began as John's eyes roved the room searching for Chet.

"He said you'd had a nightmare. You woke screaming. Dr. Brackett had you fitted for a mouth guard for while you sleep just until you can wake remembering where you are and not to talk, okay?"

It wasn't okay, but what choice did he have? John nodded sadly. He did remember the dream now and with it came all of Chet's barbs about his background. Only twice in his whole time as a fireman had he shared his lineage willingly; once when one of the female anthropologists, Darcy Paquette tracked him down and called the station wanting to interview him and once when he and Chet had an argument about conditions on reservations and a certain Marcus Parkham after watching a ridiculous cowboy movie. Both times were painful and frustrating and both times John never felt safe telling Chet or even Roy what had happened to him all those years ago.

Roy watched his partner's face. "Don't you dare," he warned in a low, worried growl as John's mouth opened. John's head hung down again as far as the soft collar would allow. Roy reached for his large Adidas gym bag pulling out an old manual typewriter.

"Dix sent it. Oh and by the way she says hi and that she knows you can't keep your mouth shut but if you don't use the typewriter to communicate instead of shredding your throat she's gonna come up and then you'll be sorry."

John tried to smile but it didn't reach his eyes. Roy gently placed a capped pen in a fold in John's gauzed hands and heaved the typewriter onto John's bedside table, wheeling it to face his friend.

"Now talk, I'll listen, promise," Roy said.

A painfully slow process started but it wasn't like either one of them had anywhere to go.

Sorry, John typed first.

"Okay, let's save ourselves time and skip that, okay? You have nothing to be sorry for. And I know these nightmares have nothing to do with this rescue … hell if we were called to another identical one you'd be up that scaffold and leaping - well not without looking … but without even thinking about yourself."

Johnny shrugged. It was true.

"Can you tell me what's been bothering you before we went out on that one?"

John's pen poised over the keys. His hand shook and he paled.

Can't yet … haven't figured out what to say … feel stupid. Where's Chet?

Roy was disappointed to say the least but did his best not to show it.

"Uh, Chet had to go. Had some stuff to do…"

Johnny nodded, swiping white strips of gauze over his forehead. He vaguely remembered the freaked out expression on his friend's face, his pleading tone in trying to wake him from his nightmare, and the way he couldn't look Chet in the eyes when he finally did wake.

Sure, Chet had been an insufferable jerk in the past with an imaginary Indian princess on his mother's side, had performed almost every conceivable stereotype of life on a reservation, up to and including suggesting that he and Roy smoke a peace pipe to get over their differences that he himself had created. But in the end, Chet relented and John had watched the incredulity, morbid curiosity and disgust cross the moustached features more than once as he read Marcus Parkham's book. In the end, Chet dropped the book into the garbage can and John thought Chet might have learned something, had actually listened to him because from then on, the phantom's routine contained no racial undertones.

But Chet had only read the first edition of Parkham's book, something for which John was eternally grateful. If anyone was going to learn of what happened to his mother, it would be from him, not some damn swindling murderer.

But not now, maybe not ever.

The silence was so much more noticeable than when the two of them simply didn't speak. The absence of clacking away of keys meant that Roy wouldn't get the information he hoped for, the clue to how he could help his hurting friend. And speaking of hurting, John's forehead beaded in sweat and his brow furrowed.

"Lot of pain, where?"

I'm okay.

"Look, I'll let you off the hook … for now in not telling me what's going on with you since the other day but I know you well enough to know when you're hurting. I'm gonna check and see what you can have. Brackett's going off shift and Early's coming on so I'm not sure who we'll get."

A/N So ... the anthropologist stuff will start to be revealed in the next chapter. This story was longer than I thought when I found it on my computer and I thought about cutting a large part of John's recovery out because let's face it, most of it's been done. On the other hand, I am a story teller, and stories have back plots and need to unveiled in order to be a whole story so I decided not to do that. Again, with full recognition that John is a grown man, I stand by my position that a person in hospital needs, as Mad Eye Moody of HP would put it, "Constant vigilance!" until they're out of the woods. Although that sentiment is probably mine because of the way a lot of hospitals run nowadays as opposed to the sixties when we didn't have so many funding cuts and staff shortages etc. I assure you, no one will blow John's nose for him, LOL! And I'll get more to the actual plot in the next chapter. If I'd written this story recently, it wouldn't be so long but alas this is a blast from the past. Have a great day and be excellent to each other!


	5. Chapter 5

John's eyes grew wide. How long had he been out? It was dark outside.

You should go home now, Roy. Jo and the kids need you.

Roy checked his watch. "I'll be going home in a half hour. Stoker's gonna come in and spend the night.

Don't need a babysitter, Roy! Gawd!

"No use arguing. We've got it all figured out. Just until you get your bearings here, Doc doesn't want you waking and forgetting not to talk. That's all this is really about, honest. Look, I know the guys tease you sometimes with that mobile and all that stuff but you have to admit we do that to everyone at one time or another."

I really think the mouth guard will work. I don't wanna be any trouble and I can look after myself."

"I think you've looked after yourself long enough, Junior," Roy said, fixing his partner with a look that told him that Roy might have partially figured out why the new program at work undid him.

But Stoker's wife is pregnant. He shouldn't leave her when he doesn't have to.

"You forget … It's Friday, Beth's shower is tonight. By coming in to be with you, Stoker avoids going to the dreaded baby shower. Actually, you're babysitting him … and oh look, the shower's nearly over and I've been here. I get to go home; most of the women will be gone. I'll eat tons of leftover goodies and help clean up, earning me brownie points to be used to go fishing with you when you're well again. Win win."

John smiled for real for the first time in two days.

Oh, well when you put it that way … What kind of goodies?

"I'm glad you asked that, Johnny. See, Brackett's okayed some ice cream for you and I happen to have some of your favourite in the freezer."

Roy felt good opening the pint container of ice cream. It was the only thing he'd really been able to do for his hurting friend since the accident. John blushed when Roy raised the spoon to his mouth and reluctantly accepted that he couldn't do it himself.

The crinkle between John's eyes evened out as he got some relief from the cold treat. Roy watched him carefully for signs of choking.

Mike Stoker walked in just as John accepted his third spoonful of ice cream. Roy handed him the container without a word. John's eyes were huge with embarrassment as Stoker simply sat down and carried on scooping out small spoons of ice cream for him. But in the long run, the embarrassment didn't last long. The icy relief felt too good to ask Mike to stop.

"Boy, am I glad you're allowed to eat ice cream because I would have felt bad eating the spoils of war … um … you know, I mean, the treats from the shower," Mike said happily. "It's good to see you awake, man," he added seriously.

John couldn't reach the typewriter behind the engineer's back so he simply nodded his thanks, still a bit weirded out.

"Okay, Johnny, um, I guess I'm outta here until tomorrow night. Cap and Marco are going to come in during the day tomorrow."

Roy watched the puzzlement on his friend's features as no mention of Chet came. Suddenly the paramedic wasn't so hungry anymore. He couldn't remember what he'd said to Chet or why Chet would shy away. Did Chet think less of him after his nightmare?

"Um, I'll put this back in the freezer on my way out. Mike, you can just ask the nurse for it when he wants it again."

'M right here, Roy…

"I know. I know, Johnny. Look, take it easy and get some rest and maybe Brackett'll spring you from the ICU and you can get a T.V." And if you don't, I just may have to torture it out of you what's got you so down, he thought. With a pat to John's shoulder, Roy was gone.

"Nifty old gadget," Mike said of the old typewriter.

Dix leant it to me. Told me to keep my mouth shut too if I heard correctly, he typed, a small sad smile crossing his features. He remembered Chet telling him once when he'd been bit by a rattler that the station would enjoy the peace and quiet of him not being there and he joked back that the only way the station would have quiet is if he got terminal laryngitis. Now it was a distinct possibility that John's voice would never come back as strongly as it had been, a definite disability to a fireman who might have to call loudly for victims.

Mike saw the fear behind the brave smile.

"Your voice is gonna come back strong. You're gonna follow the doc's orders, keep the swelling down by eating plenty of ice cream and keeping hydrated on milk shakes. And … without a voice, you can use your famous puppy dog eyes on all the hot nurses. That is if the milk doesn't cause mucus, then you'll just sound gross," Mike smiled. "Now, stop feeling guilty. I mean, of course I don't want you here hurt, you understand, but to avoid going to a baby shower, I'd pretty much shoot my toe off. So, me and my toe thank you."

You and your toe are welcome … I think. John grinned sleepily.

XXXX

Chet did his laundry, cleaned his apartment and turned on a football game. He'd just cracked a beer when the phone rang.

"Hey Chet, it's Roy. Listen, I know we were all supposed to meet at Cap's house tonight but with what happened to Johnny and all, well things change. Beth's shower is over and most of the ladies have left my house. There's tons of leftovers and Marco, Cap and I wondered if you want to come on over. I hear pink pinwheel sandwiches are great with cold beer and cake."

Chet was going to say no. He was still wracking his brain about the look Johnny gave him when he woke terrified from his nightmare. The pause on the other end of the phone told Roy that.

"Come on over, Chet. Everything's gonna work out okay and things always look better on a full stomach," Marco said, taking the phone from Roy. That did the trick. Chet agreed to come over.

XXXX

Beth sat with her feet up as Joanne and Mama Lopez put away some decorations. Jenny picked up the paper plate decorated with ribbons and bows and placed it on Chet's shaggy head when he got there. Beth reached for her camera.

"Have to get a shot for Mike and Johnny," she grinned, sitting amongst a baby stroller, crib, diapers and all sorts of welcoming gifts. Chet hammed it up in good humor but his friends from fifty-one could tell he was troubled. As soon as the Irish linesman kissed and hugged the remaining ladies Roy and Marco saved him, ushering him out the back patio door held by Cap who dangled a beer in his hand as promised. Roy promptly passed Chet a pink pinwheel sandwich.

XXXX

The dreaded black letter brochures were strewn on a tempered glass-top table and Chet's eyes kept drifting to it, so often that he lost his taste for the artificially dyed salmon sandwich. Looking from the magazine to the plate where lived the other rainbow colored sandwiches, made Chet feel queasy. He politely put his sandwich into a napkin and sipped his beer rather vigorously, asking for a new one to chase it. Cap would normally have hesitated but made an exception this time and handed his hose jockey a fresh brew.

Chet couldn't explain what happened between him and John in their silent exchange that unnerved him so. Cap asked different questions but nothing rang a bell. Roy sat quietly munching the pinwheel sandwiches, grimacing when peanut butter and jelly, surprise, surprise didn't go so well with beer that in turn didn't seem to be doing anything to drown out their suspicions that something fairly serious was up with Johnny and in some way, it involved Chet.

Before Cap cracked a second beer for himself, he asked his wife, Emily if she'd be willing to drive everyone home.

"I'll drive," laughed Mama Lopez who didn't have her license.

"Of course I'll drive," Emily called from the kitchen. Turning to Joanne, she spoke in lower tones. "Henry tells me that Johnny's been troubled lately. I suspect the boys are trying to figure out what's going on. He showed me some brochures from work…"

"Yeah, Roy showed me those too. You know, I was talking with Mrs, Duntley, the fireman's wife the other day; we've been in touch a couple of times since Tim's passed away through various fundraisers. She said she was never contacted by those people who claimed to have done research into the wishes of surviving family members of fireman and policemen who have passed away in the line of duty."

"Henry called Drew's wife yesterday and she said the same thing. No one spoke to her about his passing or what notification procedures might have made the horrible process any less horrible," Emily said.

"This whole thing doesn't feel right," Mama Lopez said, touching her rosary beads that clacked in her sweater pocket.

Joanne lightened the mood by cheekily cutting each person an extra slice of cake, declaring that at baby showers, calories don't count. She poked her head out the patio doors and got Roy's attention, passing him the plates of cake. She told him what they'd been discussing in the kitchen and he passed on the information to his friends.

The amount of beer bottles grew on the table uncharacteristically. Chet was on number five, feeling a little more talkative. Everyone else was on number four, feeling a bit more able to listen. Chet put his fifth beer down on top of the stupid brochure, the overhead paper lantern shining through the brown bottle and magnifying the words on the brochure absurdly.

"Darcy Paquette," Chet slurred, leaning over the table, looking through his bubbly beer.

Cap actually blew a raspberry at the name, finishing his fourth beer and reaching for a fifth.

"Marcus Parkham …" Chet called out and mimicked an orchestral conductor as Cap blew out another raspberry.

"Wait a minute … Marcus Parkham … Marcus Parkham … where've I heard that name before?" Chet said, repeating the name as if that would help place it.

"Oh … Oh-my-God!" Chet sighed, looking distinctly sick.

"I told you to stop at four on an empty stomach, Kelly," Roy reminded his friend, shaking his head and standing to go get some Tums.

"No … no it's not that, Roy … It's Marcus Parkham! Remember? From the book?" Chet stood up and paced around, waving his hands as if that would jog everyone's memory, but he was the only one who'd actually read that dreadful book.

"Marcus Parkham's the anthropologist who led the study on the reservation where Johnny grew up. A real jerk too. The lies that guy spins could send a whole civilization back to the dark ages."

Chet was so worked up his hand hit the beer bottle spilling the contents all over Marcus Parkham's shiny white coat on the brochure. He shook the dripping brew onto the grass and shoved the brochure under everyone's nose with a 'well what do you think?' look on his face.

Roy sat back down heavily.

"Oh, Junior, why didn't you just tell us?"

"Because of me, Roy …" Chet said sadly. "I made it so hard for him to talk about his past on the reservation in front of us he just clammed up. But once I'd read Parkham here's book," he continued, stabbing the page with his finger, "I realized what a hard life Johnny had when he was a kid. I never teased about the reservation again but I guess by then it was too late. He knew he couldn't trust me."

"None of us helped in that situation," Roy admitted.

"Well, the question is, what are you twits gonna do about it?" Cap asked.

"Well, for one thing, I'm certainly not letting the likes of Marcus Parkham get a hold of any of my personal information. He and his group are relentless. Johnny was really rattled when that anthro tracked him down at the station. She had the audacity to suggest that it was a miracle that he'd turned out as anything other than a savage. She made it sound like his becoming a fireman was nothing short of earth shaking. She really insulted him. God, I feel so selfish right now … at the time I didn't know how serious it was, all I could think of was how hard Johnny would be to live with that day. But you know, she harassed him dozens of times after that and Johnny seemed to tune it out. I was so proud of him. Now I know that he was just burying how he felt…

"It gets worse," Chet whispered, suddenly finding the beer sour. "Johnny's nightmare … he dreamt that Marcus Parkham killed his mother."

"Dios, that has to be just a nightmare … right?" Marco said, sitting up straighter.

"Parkham's not in jail so…" Cap trailed off. "Poor John, seeing this guy on the front cover of this magazine, entering his new place in the world. What a plague."

Roy's hand propped his chin up on the glass-topped table as he stared down into the jowls of Marcus Parkham.

"And I thought this would be something we could fix easily. I thought John's mood the other day was because this whole benevolent bull crap was for families and well, John was orphaned at twelve and when his Aunt Rose passed four years ago, that was the last of his living family. I thought it was because he felt alone, and that we could fix it all with a couple of stupid words, make sure he knows he's our brother … How could I have thought a problem like that would be so simple? And as it turns out I was even more of a jerk than I thought. Johnny's been struggling with telling us about Parkham, I can tell."

"And that's my fault," Chet reiterated. If I hadn't gone on about peace pipes and all the other nonsense…"

"John forgave you for that," Marco said quietly.

Chet looked up at his friend with tears hanging on for dear life at the corners of his eyes.

"How do you know that, Marco?" he whispered.

"Because John and I transferred to fifty-one's at around the same time. You made fun of my Mexican heritage and I got you back I'm ashamed to admit by stooping to your level and giving you the gears about being an Irishman. You saw that I could take it, believe me, I've been there and done that, many times my friend. We became amigos. So, you moved on. To Johnny. Johnny didn't have any comebacks and you were relentless. It was just when I was going to say something to you that you got that damned book. Chet I prayed that you would see reason and you did. You saw the lies in that book and you stopped harassing Johnny about his heritage. He told me some time after that he forgave you. That you were still an insufferable jerk but a likable insufferable jerk that he was proud serving with."

Chet picked up his empty beer bottle and tipped the dregs into his mouth, more for something to do with the awkward confession than anything.

"He forgave me, but this nightmare thing has got him really shook up … he forgave but he couldn't forget. And all along I thought that Parkham guy went into bankruptcy, I remember reading about a year ago or more that he was in trouble with his publishers but he must've robbed an old lady of her bingo savings or something if he's still out there."

"You read Forbes?" Marco asked, astonishment the only factor in his raising his head from the table. "Wait 'til I tell Johnny. But seriously, it was probably this contract with HQ and the government that pulled him out of his slump."

"It isn't you that Johnny's upset with, Chet. I know that. We need to talk to him about Marcus Parkham or this whole situation's gonna eat him."

"I hate to say it but we'd better get a hold of Marcus Parkham's subsequent books. We need to be armed with information on his lies and I'll need to contact HQ," Cap said, sounding suddenly sober.

"Well, there's not a bookstore open anywhere in town now," said Marco.

Cap, being the voice of reason to his very upset men reminded them all that they were in no condition to be reading multi chaptered books tonight anyway.

"I think we should let John sleep tonight before we go to him with this."

Roy agreed and plans were set to meet early Saturday morning at the nearby bookstore for coffee to discuss a plan of action. Marcus Parkham wouldn't get to dissect the fire department's brotherhood like he'd dissected John's childhood but before a case could be made to HQ regarding Parkham and his program, tangible proof was needed against the man.

A/N Oh man, you guys are so great Thanks so much for reminding me that Roy couldn't have been in Korea. You are right. That will be changed. Thanks for all the great advice and reviews, I really appreciate it. Sorry for the delay. I will post two chapters this week.


	6. Chapter 6

Marco treaded down Rampart's quiet corridors in the early morning to relieve Mike from John's room.

"Hey, Mike," Marco whispered, standing just outside John's door. "Can you step out here a minute, please? We'll stay close in case Johnny wakes."

Stoker yawned, stretched out his tall body and joined his friend in the hall making sure he could still see the sleeping figure in the bed.

"Johnny had a peaceful night," Mike started with.

Marco smiled in relief. "That's great news; he deserves a break …"

"What's going on, Marco?"

Marco quietly filled Mike in all that had been learned about Marcus Parkham the night before.

Mike looked at his watch. "So that's what's been going on. No wonder John's been so down. I think I'm gonna call Beth and stop in at the bookstore on my way home. I can talk to Cap and pick up some magazines for Beth at the same time. John's been wanting everyone to go home anyway. He worries about Beth being alone but I reminded him that Beth was with Jo most of the night last night."

"Always the paramedic," Marco said, shaking his head sadly toward the sleeping figure.

"He's gonna be okay, Marco. Doc actually said he might have him transferred to a step down unit as long as we can keep up our schedule."

"We can, with a little help. If he still needs someone here when we go back on shift in three days, Mama says she'll sit with him. Believe me, she can talk for two."

"That's great," said Stoker, stretching once more. "Word to the wise, get up and stretch once in awhile. That chair is an ER visit waiting to happen."

"I've got it covered," said Marco cheekily, pulling out a large cushion from his knapsack. "See my Grandmother, bless her, has a lovely plush sofa set … covered in plastic dust covers. Trouble is, she's waiting for the pope or someone to come sit on it. We get the hard wooden kitchen chairs … which actually isn't that bad considering her kitchen is always full of good food. But we've learned to walk tall can carry a big cushion."

Mike laughed and slapped Marco on the back. The moral support the guys had for each other at a time like this really helped. Not only did the men of fifty-one have to be the big brothers answering a call for help that was thirteen years overdue, they had to find a way to stop Parkham from dragging them and the whole department down the way he had done on the reservation.

"Suddenly I feel like I'm one of the gang of Scooby Doo, We've got a mystery to solve." yawned Mike.

"Well, we'll know things are okay when Shaggy wants a Scooby Snack again," smiled Marco, plumping up his pillow.

"When he does, Mama's gonna make him some mild tamales … but you know, even Mama's mild tamales would smooth Willy Nelson's voice into a falsetto. Johnny's gonna get his voice back," Marco said, clearly needing confirmation.

"He will, nothing can shut Johnny up," Stoker said with a smile.

"Except Marcus Parkham," Marco said sadly. "Look, you go on and I'll be sure to call if anything changes or if he gets moved to a step-down.

XXXX

"Didn't figure you for a latte man, Michael," Cap said, eyebrows raised toward his engineer who sported a frothy moustache worthy of Chet.

"You know Michael Stoker, fireman/engineer extraordinaire, this is Mike, guy at a bookstore looking for something that would likely make his stomach turn when he reads it if he drank his typical black coffee," Mike replied, going from smile to a bit queasy in seconds.

"I know, Mike, you didn't even have the benefit of being half in the bag when you heard about this," Roy said. "I have some Tums in the car if you want."

"Nah, I'll be okay," said Mike, putting himself back to the task of finding Marcus Parkham's books.

"Got 'em," called Chet from two aisles of the old annex of the bookstore away.

There was a collective sigh as many footsteps trod towards where Chet called.

"One, two and three," Chet said, holding up hardcovers. "I can tell you what was in book one…"

XXXX

Chet looked at his feet through the whole recounting of the contents that pertained specifically to John in the first edition. After that, each man took a copy of the second and third editions and skimmed it, searching in the indexes and references.

"Oh God …" Cap trailed off. It was clear that whatever he's just read, Roy had just finished as well.

"So that's where those faint scars on his palms are from," Roy said sadly not able to recount the glossed over version of the fire that had claimed John's mother making him an orphan at twelve.

"I knew his folks were gone," Cap said. "I had to ask him about notification of next-of-kin on his records that he left blank four years ago when the new forms came in. But I never knew how he was orphaned and you know John … he talks only when he wants to and about what he wants to. I should have maybe…"

"He wouldn't have told you, Cap. You could use thumbscrews and he wouldn't tell you. He called me up four years ago just after the new forms came in. He told me you'd asked him to complete them. Said he didn't want to be a bother but could he put my name down on the forms because he needed one." Roy smiled suddenly, remembering something. "He told me not to worry, he'd never get injured in the line of duty or inconvenience anyone by dying, he just needed a name."

"He's always joking around like that … twit," sighed Cap, trying to wipe away the prickly feeling in the corners of his eyes and if anyone asked he'd swear that someone in the small café in the bookstore was cutting onions – didn't matter that the place sold only pastries or doughnuts, it was Captain's prerogative and the others seemed eager to exercise it too.

After a few minutes of throat clearing and awkward coffee sipping, Cap reluctantly bought the books.

"I hate like hell giving the publishers of this drivel money but we can't borrow these books from a library because we have to highlight any clear harassment and also the last part in edition three by that Paquette woman. She admits freely to calling Johnny to try to get an interview when he expressly told her no, not one but fifteen times in the last four years both at home and at work. We are witness to that and you'll recall that she tried to use the contract the Chief at the reservation signed to hold Johnny to continued scrutiny. It's my understanding that the anthros were only allowed on the reservation during certain times of the year and the study was to be completed in three years. John was a minor, he never signed a contract for follow-up interviews and they couldn't hold 'im to it if he had."

"Besides, we'll have to give these books to HQ as well to expose Parkham," Chet said with renewed hope.

"Well, there's no mention of Marcus Parkham having anything to do with the fire like Johnny dreamed about, but you should have seen his face when he woke screaming about it. It was real for him. It was true for him," Chet said, paling.

"Well, history is written by the winners, right?" Cap replied grimly. "Even when it's a lie."

"One thing we have to remember guys, we may believe what John told us but HQ is going to be an interested bystander in this whole process. We have to prove to them that Parkham's intent is to harm our department like they harmed the reservation's people. If HQ is inclined toward Parkham's theories … and we all know hiring practices have only changed in the last twenty or so years so some of the brass from back in the dark ages is still there … we'll be back at square one. And … we have to think of how this will affect Johnny. It's bound to come up that this all started with him."

"Oh man, we've all been so gung-ho to avenge John and protect the department's integrity we never even asked John what he thinks of all this. Think about it, he never even told Roy any of this stuff … and now we all know. If that isn't bad enough we were gonna go to HQ with it to confront Parkham," Chet said.

"We'll have to talk to Johnny," Mike said. "But right now … Oh no, if I don't get out of here I'm gonna be late for Beth's appointment! Roy, I'll call you later, don't do anything without me please."

"You got it, Michael, give Beth our best," Cap said.

Mike left in a hurry and the others agreed that they needed to sit on this information at least until John was more stable. It was a hard decision. Even now, some poor guy in the department could be handing over some very sensitive information and feelings meant for his loved ones, right into the hands of Marcus Parkham and his publisher.

XXXX

Marco quietly unwrapped a sandwich. A cup of hot coffee appeared to his left on the table. "Thought you could use some, I heard firemen run on this stuff," explained the nurse who'd just come back from lunch. "Oh, and we got a batch of cookies from an ex patient today. They're excellent for dipping."

"Thanks," Marco said gratefully.

The nurse washed her hands and took a new set of vitals, noting them in John's chart. She was efficient and at ease with conversation. John woke when the bell of the stethoscope touched his bare chest under the hospital gown. His eyes closed in frustration when he realized the mouth guard was in place and he couldn't speak.

"You did well waking this time," the nurse smiled. "You didn't try to talk past the guard. Dr. Brackett will be really pleased."

The kind nurse was going to assist John in taking out the offending object but the tip of his index finger snaked out of the thick white bandages on his right hand and plucked it out. He held it at arm's length, disgusted as he dropped it into the cleanser the nurse held for him. She then turned off the light air flow leading to the tube it was attached to and listened to his chest, noting his respirations.

Marco stood to help John adjust his position in the bed as the head was raised a bit. The nurse wiped a warm cloth over John's face and left John and Marco alone to 'talk'.

Your turn?

"Yep," Marco replied unevenly. It was the first time he'd faced Johnny since the accident. How you feelin'?"

I'm okay. Look, index finger works, what more could a guy need? John tried to smile, wiggling his only communication tool, but the look on Marco's face told him that he was going to have to have to have a talk with Marco too. What was it with these guys? None of this was their fault. How John wished he'd kept the paper he'd so painstakingly typed with one finger to Roy and Mike already.

"Marco? Not your fault. You know that, right?"

Marco's shoulders slumped. He thought he'd hidden that fear well.

"Part of me knows that. It's just when the rope went slack, well, Mike, Chet and I - we thought … We thought you were dead. We thought you'd come loose somehow from the harness. When you didn't fall out of the end of the tube and you didn't answer when we called you, we knew something was really wrong."

Nine lives, remember? Chet always says that.

Marco could hear John's voice in his head as surely as if John was speaking and not typing; how he'd stammer out the first few words, stuttering a bit, how he'd apologize for something that was out of his control. He wanted to say it but bit his words back; how many lives had John used up?

"You're not a cat, John," Marco said, swallowing the lump in his throat.

John smiled past the pain in his chest and throat. Dr. Brackett came in at that moment, heartened by the sight of his patient in a semi-seated position looking a bit better than he'd been last night.

Aww, come on, Doc, the nurse just took vitals.

And for the umpteenth time since he'd been admitted, John was poked, prodded and generally gone over with a fine toothcomb.

John winced slightly at the penlight intrusion into his eye sockets. Brackett sighed and John, having known the man for some time interpreted it accurately.

"Your eyes are reacting equally now," Brackett told him, jotting that down in very long drawn out doctor-speak as he and Roy put it.

But… John may not have had his typewriter handy but he always found a way to get his points across.

"But you throat's still really raw. I think we can move you to a step down unit today. Marco here tells me you woke oriented and didn't try to talk. I can't stress how important that is going to be in the next week. There's still a possibility of having to have some surgery to repair you vocal cords but the less you strain them, the further you reduce that risk."

John silently promised with a nod. Brackett smiled and jotted the orders to have his patient moved.

XXXX

An hour later found John and Marco watching As The World Turns in his new room.

"This is awful … we could make a better soap than this … call it As The World Burns, the life of an L.A. County Firefighter. It could be about a really good looking Latino firefighter bravely putting out fires with his clumsy chum, Chad. Background characters could be the Cap, a nice, laid back guy who's happy to have the best linesman in the country on his team, backed up by Ray, the concerned family man/paramedic and the ever-bombing out with women/paramedic Juan…"

Angry sounding typing echoed, as the clacking grew louder by the depression of the keys demanding one thing.

Juan?

"Well sure, he'd be just like you only Latino. Mama would like that. She always calls you Juanito."

Marco rambled on as if that explained everything.

"And Mack Stoker, engineer/strong, silent type who only speaks when it's really important or pertains to the engine."

John shook his head until Marco burst out laughing.

"Okay, you got a better idea?"

Yeah. You have a charming Native American fireman/paramedic who the nurses really dig, John typed, frantically ripping the paper from the typewriter as a nurse entered the room before she could read it. He tried to crumple said paper but failed with his hands mostly bandaged. The paper slid and glided over the clean linoleum until the nurse bent delicately to pick it up, glancing down.

The nurse glanced at the TV and the two very embarrassed firemen. She smiled at them.

"How about we make it about a certain paramedic taking his pain meds and trying to get some rest?" she laughed.

John shrugged nonchalantly. After all, he wasn't really interested in what was going on in the sordid lives on that show.

Marco grinned mischievously.

"Yeah, Johnny. Maybe it's time you got some rest." Turning to the nurse he said, "and then I'll be able to watch what I wanted to watch, the ball game."

John glared at his friend but he was no match for the shot he'd just been given. He rolled his eyes as the nurse gently slipped the mouth guard into his mouth and attached it to light flow oxygen. He blinked sleepily as the nurse took his vitals and left. Marco made a show of changing channels but turned it back to As The World Turns the minute he figured she was gone.

XXXX

Anthropologist, Darcy Paquette held a beaded handbag open as she moved gum, tissues and a pad of paper out of the way to fit her camera inside. The elevator dinged on the second floor of Rampart and she stepped up to the nurse's station and enquired about a certain patient she'd been dying to see for over a decade. There were no restrictions placed on visitors on this ward so she was rewarded with the information she asked for.

"Oh, Mr. Gage is sleeping presently but I'm sure you could talk to his friend who's sitting with him."

Paquette raised her eyebrows. So he was sleeping. Well, this might be easier than she thought.

Making her way down the hall she checked her makeup.

Paquette stepped eagerly into John's room barely restraining her desire to take a photo of the sleeping, pale young man in the bed, captions flowing in her mind even as she pictured her paycheque sum. To her, it had all come full circle. Careless to a fault, John Gage tried to get out of the life they all knew would be his, only to fail by being careless and probably drunk on the job. It was all so delicious and rewarding. Even though it was a lie.

Marco stood quickly, ushering Paquette from the room but feeling rude for doing so afterwards.

"Sorry, Ms.?"

"Oh, um, I'm Ms. Forsythe, a friend of John's. I heard about his unfortunate accident from his … landlord when I went to visit him and thought I'd stop by to see how the poor boy's doing."

The way Ms. Forsythe kept glancing around the corner of the door from the hallway made Marco suspicious. He kept telling himself that perhaps she was just very concerned. He couldn't very well tell her to leave. After all, he wasn't John's keeper. He didn't know everything about him.

"Um, well John just had a shot for pain and he usually sleeps for hours after that…" Marco began, nodding toward the elevators for her to leave for reasons he couldn't explain to himself.

"Oh … drugs. How long has he been on drugs?" the woman asked, almost too eagerly, her hand twitching toward the beaded bag hanging by her waist.

"What? I mean, I guess since he got here," Marco answered only out of politeness he was quickly losing.

"You're a … friend of John's?" the fake Ms. Forsythe asked.

"Yes. We work together."

"Well, be a dear and let me have a few moments with John now. It's been so long. I've missed him so." She drew all of her s's out for so long she sounded like a snake to Marco, I've missssed him sssssso.

Paquette stepped back into the room followed by Marco who pretended not to notice her icy cold glare of annoyance.

"What happened to him?" she asked, seeing for herself that she would get no answers from John.

"Work accident," was all Marco was willing to say, wishing someone would come in and tell this woman to go away.

"Careless was he?" Paquette asked, even as she tried to look convincing as she stroked the back of Gage's damaged hands. "It's not the first time he's found himself bandaged like this…"

Marco gulped audibly. There was an aura about this woman that made him step between her and the bed. There was something familiar about her voice but he couldn't exactly place it.

Marco hadn't been briefed on what the guys had found out in Parkham's books yet and who his accomplices were. He was on pure instinct here. Paquette hadn't aged well and the pictures on the brochures the fire department personnel got were ten years old.

"No he wasn't careless!" Marco said, a little too loudly. "He was rescuing someone at an amusement park. There was an accident. Nothing more."

John stirred but Marco's back was to him, facing the woman who claimed to be a friend.

Paquette stepped left and right trying and failing to get past Marco, impatience flooding her cheeks with red blotches. Anticipation filled her with morbid curiosity when she realized her prey's eyes were open unbeknownst to Marco.

The voice was familiar to John, scary, like he could drown in its tones and pitches; all wrong for the gender it represented, not soft, not safe.

"Look Mr. Lopez is it? I'll come right to the point. John here was my …"

"Guinea pig …" Marco realized with repulsion evident in his tone. He'd answered the phone to this woman before, he was sure, and each time he passed a message to Johnny from her, he was met with the same sad or angry retort and absolute refusal to call her back or take her calls.

"You're Darcy Paquette," Marco said.

"Guilty," Paquette laughed, sticking up her dainty hand as if getting caught was only a delicious part of the game.

"You need to leave. Johnny's not interested in talking to you, nor has he ever been."

"I can certainly see why you would be threatened by my presence here. Being a minority in an important job like the fire department is a big responsibility and you don't want to mess it up. I can assure you, I have no interest at this time in Latino affairs. I'm not here to harass John either. On the contrary I and many people have devoted our lives to the plight of his people." Paquette emphasized him with a vague jab over her shoulder toward his friend.

"Yeah, well, I'm his people, and you're leaving," Marco fumed, hands folded across his muscular chest.

"Well I never…" Paquette stuttered as though being kicked out of somewhere was new to her.

"Yeah well, you're young yet, give it some time," Marco said sarcastically.

"I studied John and his family for years. I'm not done. The study has to come full circle in order for us as a society to understand what we must do with these people…"

Marco was beyond mad. He'd never hit a lady before and he wasn't about to start. He could see her next study. Latino men are abusive to women blah blah blah.

"G – GET – OUT!"

Marco's eyes bulged when he turned to face the hoarse cry from John. John was sitting up in bed, gripping the bedrails, mouthpiece spit out and hissing oxygen pointlessly.

Marco shoved in past Paquette who dramatically flung herself to the floor onto her backside crying out in pain.

John's shoulders shook beneath Marco's hands, his grip on the bedrails so strong Marco was afraid he'd hurt him if he tried to help him lie back down. Pressing the call button now was a moot point as Paquette whimpered and cried out hysterically.

"He pushed me! Oh! My back, my back!" she wailed.

The nurse's eyes went from her patient to the woman on the floor before she called for orderlies and more nurses.

"M – Marco! Get – her – out – p-please – please," Johnny pleaded before his body stiffened, his eyes fixing on Marco before a coughing spell overtook him.

"Johnny, look at me, man," Marco pleaded. "She's going to be out of here in a minute. It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay. Take it easy. Please." Marco's fingers were deft as he expertly took the oxygen hose and replaced the facial mask instead of the tooth guard and placed it on John's face waiting for more help to come. Through it all, Paquette still whimpered quietly enough to be heard but also to hear everything that was going on.

John let go of the bedrail, clutching at his chest, eyes wide and strained as he fought for every breath.

Marco's eyes widened as John's oxygen mask's opaque plastic tainted pink with each cough.

"What's going on in here?" came the angry voice of Dr. Brackett.

Marco spoke between Brackett's orders to the nurse and supported John's shoulders as he inhaled the medication Brackett held for him. John's hands gestured in agreement with what Marco was telling the doctor but every time he tried to push away the mask to add something he was met with a firmer grip and Marco felt his friend's shoulders sag and his breathing even out as the nurse pushed medication into the IV line. John's eyes fell shut with one last defiant squint.

"That woman … on the floor … came here to harass Johnny. She knew him when he was just a kid … studied his culture on the reservation John grew up on. She phones the station every now and then to talk to John but John's never talked to her or called her back, says she ruined his life. I didn't recognize her from her voice until it was too late, doc, honest. She said she was his friend, said his landlord told her where she could find 'im. I was trying to get her to leave when John woke and … and … I blew it. Again."

"Marco, it wasn't your fault. It sounds like you've only spoken to her on the phone a couple of times over the last years. Johnny must have heard her talking and woke up. You couldn't know that would happen so don't blame yourself. Now, how did she fall? I need to know a few things before I go downstairs to her treatment room."

"I … I dunno, Doc. I just saw John gasping and choking and trying to get her to leave. He was frantic. I didn't push her though …"

Marco's hands flew to his face when he realized the implications of Paquett's dramatic fall to the floor with no witnesses. Still he couldn't find it in himself to worry about himself, not with his friend's agonized cries still echoing in his ears.

"Doc? Um, can you call Roy? Or Cap? Or heck, anyone else. I was supposed to be here to protect John. Some job I did." He gently moved from behind his friend to sit on the side of the bed that Brackett had just vacated.

A shaky, bandaged hand rose into the air toward Marco and smoky dark eyes bored into Marco's. An almost imperceptible nod told Marco what he needed to know. John didn't blame him.

"Okay amigo, I'm not leaving. But if anyone else comes to pay you a visit I'm biting before barking."

A ghost of a sad smile tinged with red at the sides of the mouth guard stamped approval of that plan before thinning out, the eyes closing but moving under the heavy lids.

A/N I recall an episode of Emergency where a female anthropologist kept calling the station to talk to John and he wouldn't take the calls. John said that the anthros made it sound like a miracle that he'd ever made anything of himself. So, I've put a name and face to that female anthro. The next chapter will be specifically about Marcus Parkham and what he's been up to lately. Thank you so much for your kindness in reviews, your advice and thoughtfulness is very much appreciated.


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